


Head Full of Doubt, Road Full of Promise

by nurfherder



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Angst and Humor, Christmas, Christmas Tree, Consensual, First Time, Genderswap, Love, M/M, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-27
Updated: 2013-01-02
Packaged: 2017-11-22 14:28:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 46,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/610821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nurfherder/pseuds/nurfherder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a witch’s spell goes awry, Dean transforms. However, even after the dust settles, we can’t change the things we’ve done or revealed about ourselves. It’s time to look inside and figure out who we really are, and who we really love. Completed Work. (Original story as seen on my tumblr, nurfherder.)<br/><i>DeanCas, multiple characters, semi-AU after Season Five. Only first part gender-bend. Christmas time.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dude Looks Like a Lady

 

 

Fucking witches.

He had never enjoyed hunting them. Every single time they had to hunt a witch, they ended up tripping over themselves and making mistakes they wouldn’t normally make. It all came down to the same reason: witches were humans, and human beings tended to be royally fucked up. Dean often thought himself a prime example of this.

If only they were hunting a _djin_ , or a _Wendigo_ \--something simple. It felt like years since he and Sam had been able to take on something simple. But no, it had to be a witch. And then, of course, there was the problem of what to do the thing when they finally cornered it. Witches were human, after-all, even if they were fucked up evil bastards. Guilty conscience and a sense of right-versus-wrong was enough to keep the Winchester boys up at night, long after they had done the deed. Even if it was just-desserts and the witch in question was psychotically killing people by forcing them to ingest knives, forks, etc. Once you’ve seen a throat slit from the inside out there really isn’t any going back.

The house they were in was dimly lit and dusty, littered with the trash and graffiti of countless teenagers. Probably uninhabited for the last thirty years and rumored to be haunted, it must have proved a natural attraction for that sort of thing. Dean considered it about as standard as it could be for a hunting case. The floor-boards were creaking underneath his boots, and he hesitated to think what would happen if the wood beneath him broke and his foot slipped through. He really didn’t look forward to the prospect of having a broken leg to deal with. But better he get knocked around than Sammy--that’s why he’d sent Sam to the basement and he saved the attic for himself. Theoretically they’d fish the bitch out and corner her in the living room downstairs.

Unless, of course, he found himself face to face with her in front of her fucking creepy-ass altar in the attic. Really, who has their altar in the attic.

“Oh, shit.” Dean backed up, but it was too late. The witch flung herself at him--literally flew at him from across the room and plowed him over, knocking the silver knife he held straight from his hands. That thing he’d been fearing about his leg going through the floor? Upon reflection, it was not really as terrifying as his whole body falling completely through the ceiling, a flailing witch grasping at his belly.

They landed with a crash in the living room, falling onto an old coffee table. It gave way, crumbling and cracking into pieces, potentially saving Dean’s back and life. He shook his head, hearing a loud ringing in his ears; he eventually understood it to be the sound of the witch shrieking nonsense at him. There were stars circling in his eyes, and he had absolutely no idea where his dagger had fallen.

“Sammy...” he mumbled, or tried to; the wind was knocked out of his lungs. Somewhere in the distance he thought he heard the clambering of Sam’s footsteps up the basement stairs. He shifted delicately and lifted himself slowly, seeing that the witch was already standing, Dean having taken the brunt of the fall. She cackled at him, “Break your back, pretty boy?”

“Hardly,” His air was back, and he began pulling himself upright against the couch cushions. Showers of dust puffed themselves out and over his eyes, making him cough. He felt an intense shock at the back of this head and cried out, whirling around to see the witch retreating. “What the hell?”

She had, in her hand, a fistful of his hair. “Got what I need, Winchester. Thanks so much for playing.”

“Sonuva--” He lunged at her, knocking at her closed fists, but she dodged. Within seconds she was chanting. Yanking her down, Dean pinned her with his knee and clasped a hand over her mouth--”Sammy!!”--she moved her lips beneath him and a slimy, wet tongue slipped out. Dean recoiled on instinct with an “Errrgh!”

Then suddenly, the witch’s eyes blinked black, and Dean felt himself smile with relief. “Oh, I am going to flay your ass, you son of a bitch.”

Casting about the room and struggling to keep the witch down, he tried desperately to ignore her chanting and the fact that he could hear his name mentioned. Then he saw it--a glimmer of silver under the couch. He leapt for it, grasping the knife in both hands and whirling around just in time to see Sam burst in through the basement door.

“Dean!” After a quick check to his brother, Sam turned to the witch. Together he and Dean advanced, pincering around her.

“Where’s the demon blade?” Dean had to shout over the witch’s chanting, which was growing louder and louder. Sam fished about in his over-coat. “Any damn time, Sammy, would be great!”

Sam found it, and within seconds, had plunged it into the witch’s chest. Her mouth gaped open, and she fluttered in red and yellow light. With her last flicker of life, she flung her arms out, dropping the spell’s contents at Dean’s feet and crumpling to the floor.

Sam was panting. He took the knife and wiped it shakily on his jeans as Dean stared at him. “Sorry, Dean.”

“What the hell took you so long?”

Except that Dean’s voice sounded different. Different enough to yank Sam immediately into an upright, frightened position. He stared agape at Dean, who, very suddenly, began to feel his heart pound. “Sammy, what--”

He stopped. There it was again, that strange voice that wasn’t his. Oh, God. “What did she do to me, Sammy?”

HIgher. Lighter. _Feminine_.

Sam blinked at him, then leaned forward and peered at his brother. “... _Dean_?”

“What--What the hell is--” Dean looked down at himself, and saw something rather unexpected. “I’m--I’m...”

He cast about the room blindly for a mirror, which was stupid because no one lived there and any mirrors were long since gone. He tried lamely to see his reflection in his knife-blade but couldn’t make anything out. Hands shaking, he stumbled over to the coffee table, where the remnants of the attic still lay spread out beneath them.

Like every altar Dean had ever seen, this one was sure to come with a mirror. It would probably be a broken mirror after the fall, but one shard would be enough...

Slicing his fingers, Dean lifted a fractured piece, then promptly dropped it.

“I’m a... I’m a _chick_?”

\--------------------------

Back in the hotel room, Sam was knee-deep in conversation with Bobby, his cell phone pressed tightly against his ear. He walked back and forth, unable to sit down. “Uh huh...”

Bobby was chattering audibly, almost non-stop, and Sam’s eyes were growing wider and wider, laced with more and more concern. “But we--I see.”

Dean sat on the end of the bed, half watching his brother, half staring at his own reflection in the mirror across from him.

“We don’t really know how she did it, Bobby. I mean, she had his hair--”

Bobby interjected loudly here. Dean could make out the word _idjits_.

“But he was Dean-- _Dean_ Dean--before I killed her, and I swear.... uh huh... no, we didn’t...”

Dean parted his lips and stared at them. Wow. They were full, and luscious, and--damn--they were soft. He bared his teeth and blinked his long lashes. In a way, everything about him was the same. His hair was still short and dark-blonde, his eyes were still hazel and too big for his face, and he was still covered in freckles and sun. But he was absolutely, and undeniably, a girl.

And finally, after about an hour and a half of being a woman without really comprehending it, the shock began to wear off. He smiled. He was a girl, and he was _hot_. Tits, he thought. I have got tits. And he looked down at his chest. Man-Dean hadn’t been wearing a bra earlier, so naturally Girl-Dean wasn’t wearing one now. He could see the contours of his own freaking breasts and man that was weird and hot and weird.

In a split second he was halfway out of his shirt.

“I--Dean!” Sam whirled around. “Dean, what are you doing?”

“Oh come on, man. I’ve got girl parts!” He grinned. “I wanna see ‘em!”

“Well take it in the bathroom, man, geez.”

Dean frowned into a pout, pointing lamely at the mirror, but Sam had already turned his back, resuming his conversation with Bobby and marching over to his laptop. Dean shrugged, removed the rest of his shirt, and paraded himself straight into the bathroom. He grinned to discover a mirror on the back of the door.

“Ho-ly shit. Sam, you gotta see this.”

Sam’s voice was muffled and completely reluctant in it’s reply. “I really don’t, Dean.”

“No, really--” Dean’s voice echoed loudly against the tile as he spun himself around, almost slipping, grabbing at the shower-curtain for inadequate support. “Oh, wow. Oh wow, you should see this chick’s ass.”

“Dean, that chick is you and this is weird.”

“Oh man, wait--oh, hang on a second!--” In moments, he had slid his pants down. Cupping his breasts and bouncing, he stared down at the shocking lack of movement. “Ok, moment of silence for my junk, please.”

“Dean, I’m on the phone--”

“Moment of silence!”

He heard Sam sigh heavily. “Sorry, Bobby, hang on, we’re--we’re having a moment of silence.”

Dean giggled to himself and bounced around some more. Without hesitation, he threw a leg up onto the edge of the toilet and moved one hand down and down and--“WOAH!”

“What?”

Dean cracked open the door and stared wide-eyed at Sam. “Dude, sex is invasive.”

Sam dropped his head into his palm as Dean quirked a half-smile. “It’s kinda hot, though.”

“Ok Dean, wow, please stop informing me of your self-discovery.”

“Oh, you’re just jealous.” Dean grinned at him and closed the door, reclothing himself reluctantly and tightening his belt three notches skinnier. It was rather annoying that all of his clothes were too big for him now. At the very least that bitch of a witch could have been thorough and femmed-up his clothing too.

He still couldn’t figure out how she had finished the damn spell--Sammy had stabbed her mid-speech. In slow-motion, Dean recalled the witch tossing her spell ingredients at him in her death throes, a scattering of hair, crunchy herbs, and who knows what else: toenails and newt’s balls, perhaps. But she was dead. The witch was dead, and that was the bottom line. That alone should end any spell, regardless of it’s completion. Yet here he was, still girl-ified.

“Ok, Bobby. Thanks. Let us know if--yeah. You too.”

Dean opened the door. Sam was sitting at the kitchenette table and sighing, tossing his phone to the bed. “Well, Bobby’s got no clue.”

“You’ve got him on research though, right?”

“Of course, Dean, but--” Sam looked up at him. “I mean, this is kind of new.”

Dean shook his head. “We’ve dealt with this kind of spell-shit before, all three of us. Remember that one time when we were all old except for you?”

“Yeah, I do. I also remember that killing him was supposed to end the spell. The witch who cast _this_ spell is definitely dead Dean.”

Dean shifted uncomfortably. “Yeah, I know. But come on--I’m sure there’s a way to fix this. I probably have to swallow a cow’s testicle or something, but--”

“Dean, that’s just it.” Sam stared at him, hard. “Bobby and I have been looking and talking and--we don’t know what to do.”

Dean pursed his lips, nodding as he thought aloud. “Ok, so, the spell didn’t stop when we iced her, so she clearly had a coven leader--”

“--she _was_ the coven leader.”

“--Alright... we find who she was _really_ working for, gank that one, and then boom! Man-time.”

Sam looked at him seriously, hand shutting down the laptop. He steepled his fingers under his chin. “How long do you think that’ll take?”

Dean sighed. “Look, Sammy, I don’t know! But this isn’t a problem that we can’t solve.”

Sam shook his head and stood, walking towards the door. He tossed a glance over his shoulder. “I’m calling in help.”

“From who? Bobby’s already working on it.”

Sam turned, his hand on the door handle. “The big guns, Dean.”

Dean furrowed his brow. “What, Cas? Dude, you know Cas has way bigger fish to fry than this!”

“Still, I want his input. I have a bad feeling that time is kind of of the essence here.”

Dean sighed. “You’re over-reacting. I mean, I’ll be honest, this is kind of awesome.” He gestured to himself. “Just look at me.”

Rolling his eyes, Sam exited. Taking advantage of the brief time alone, Dean lifted his shirt and stared at his reflection in the mirror. “Nice.”

\----------------------

Dean was stowed away by the air-conditioning unit, hiding out of sight under the window. He had heard Sam’s keys at the door, and in a mad dash of sudden decision, he had scrambled into his hiding place, having settled on the idea that he wanted to surprise Cas. Being a girl didn’t seem like quite the surprise enough. For some reason, Dean was set upon the idea that he should jump out and scare the living daylights of out the Angel--if he bothered to show, that was.

Not to say that Dean didn’t have any faith in Castiel--but Dean somehow imagined that Cas might just take one gander at the situation Sam presented and dodge it. Cas had been more illusive of late, certainly since Dean and Sam averted the apocalypse, since Sam’s resurrection, and since the boys' return to business. Cas had, when questioned, summed up shortly that Heaven was “busy” and that it was “a difficult thing.” Dean had tried to get him to elaborate on the situation--he asked if there really was a Civil War. Cas’s lips had sealed together then, and his eyes had grown distant. He moved his head in something close to a nod, and had said nothing else on the subject.

Still though, Castiel had always tried to come through for them--recently, he had even spent one night with the boys for no apparent reason other than just to enjoy their company. That was the last time either Dean or Sam had seen Cas, and that was some weeks ago now.

However, in spite of the doubts, when Sam opened the door to their room, Cas walked in behind him like an old shoe. Sam was mid-explanation, and Castiel was responding in his low growl, “So what exactly is the problem?”

“Well, it’s--”

“Boo!” Dean shouted and popped up beside them, grinning cheekily and holding his arms wide. “Surprise!”

Castiel whirled around, staring transfixed and frozen. After a moment’s pause, Sam moved behind him to shut the door. “This, exactly, is the problem.”

Castiel blinked and then stared hard, his eyes completely wide. “Dean _._ ”

Dean laughed, clapping his hands together. Priceless. “I’m a girl!”

Slowly, Castiel nodded, relaxing his posture but his eyes unchanging, “...I can see that.”

Dean practically danced around to Sam, winking. “He’s just in shock because I’m so pretty.”

Cas’s brows furrowed. “No, that is not it.”

“Are you’re saying I’m not pretty?” Dean’s jaw was dropped in a mock affront that went completely over Cas’s head.

“I--No, that’s not it either, Dean, I--”

Sam sighed and walked past the two of them, settling down at his computer. “As you can see, we’re not really sure what to do after this point.”

Castiel began to follow him, not taking his eyes from Dean. “And you say you killed the witch-demon?”

Dean grinned after them, almost skipping his high spirits. “Sammy did. Shoved that demon-knife right in her heart.”

“Indeed.”

Sam leaned back and gestured to Dean. “She cast this right as she was dying, and we don’t really know what to do about it. Bobby’s at a loss.”

Slowly, Castiel tore his eyes from Dean to look at Sam. “You did right to call me.”

“I was afraid of that.”

Setting his jaw, Sam sighed. Dean stared between the two of them, for the first time feeling his excitement flicker. “Ok, so what’s the big deal then?”

“It is a big deal, Dean, because...” said Cas, walking over to him and gently pressing him down onto the edge of the bed. “Because this kind of thing does not usually end well.”

He brought his face close down to Dean’s, staring into his eyes searchingly. Dean leaned his head back awkwardly, trying not to fidget as Cas raised his hands and pulled Dean’s chin down to stare into his mouth. After studying him for a moment, Cas stepped back resigned, and Dean blinked up at him, feeling at ease again when the Angel was out of his personal space. “What’s up, doc?”

Cas straightened. “How long ago did this happen?"

Sam checked his watch, “It’s been about two hours.”

“Then we haven’t much time to waste.” Cas returned his gaze to Dean. “I’m sorry, Dean.”

“For what?”

“This spell has an end point.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning the change will become permanent, and it has already begun. Sam,” Quickly, Cas strode over to Sam, who rose to meet him. “I will work everything I can on my end. I have contacts with experience. We need to find the demon who invented the spell.”

“Wait--what? The demon who invented the spell? How will we do that?”

“It will be difficult. Summon anyone to question if you’d like, but remember: we have, at best guess, thirty-six hours.”

“So I’m Cinderella, is that it? Turn into a pumpkin?” Dean blinked up at the two of them. Cas turned around and stared at him.

“There are no pumpkins involved, Dean.”

Sam cleared his throat, shoving the awkward moment out of the way as he said loudly, “Ok, then, let’s get to it.”

Castiel nodded, and stared hard at Dean. There was something completely unreadable in his expression, and it unsettled Dean greater than anything Cas had said before. When Castiel spoke, his voice was heavy. “I will do everything in my power, Dean.”

He vanished. Dean watched the empty space for a moment, then turned to his brother. “Ok then. Who you gonna call?"


	2. Any Way You Want It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Dean tries his best to enjoy his circumstances, and wherein he inevitably fails. Also, Sam and Castiel get to work.

“Hey, Sammy?” The small, goblet-contained fire fizzled in front of them, as their most recent summon went his own way.

Sam was crouched, resting tentatively on the balls of his feet, flipping through their dad’s journal in one hand and scrolling down his laptop with the other. They had spray painted a devil’s trap on the ceiling above them but had almost forgotten to disable the sprinkler system. They were halfway through lighting the first match before Dean had remembered.

So far, they had summoned two demons and one ghost, with extensive periods of research and investigation between them, each clue seemingly more vaguely connected than the last. Most of the night had been spent questioning or researching, and Dean could feel sleep scratching behind his eyes. He sat on the end of the bed and tried again.

“Sam.”

This time, Sam tilted his head slightly in acknowledgement, but his eyes were still fixed to his computer screen. “Hmm?”

“Can we call it a night already?”

“What? Why?”

Dean sighed heavily. “Because I’m tired, you’re tired, and this is getting us nowhere.”

“Dean, come on. You heard what Elijah said...”

Dean rolled his eyes and tuned out. Elijah was the ghost they had just spoken to. A cheerful bastard who looked like he’d been run over by a train. Turns out he actually had. Sam had discovered him through a tenuous link, and his conversation had been less than thrilling. Although he had proved mildly helpful in one way: he knew _slightly_ _more_ than nothing.

“...so it’ll be very simple to track the man he knew who’d been changed--”

“Very simple? Sam, that was 1875 in Bumfuckville, Nowhere!”

“And that attitude is why I’m working on the research, and you’re sitting on the bed. You’d be amazed at what you can find in census data.”

“You know, as outstanding as the US Census Bureau is, I’m pretty sure they don’t keep records of surprise sex-changes.”

Sam did not respond to this. Instead, he loomed closer to the glow of his computer screen.

Dean flopped back onto the bed and immediately regretted that decision. He sat up with an audible wince, mentally reliving the fall from the ceiling. Painfully, he peered behind him to glance at the clock: 6 AM. They’d been at this for six solid hours. Not to mention the straight twenty-four they’ll pulled to track and then hunt down a witch.

After a few moments, Sam tossed absently over his shoulder, “You should take something for your back.”

With a humorless laugh, Dean kicked off his shoes. “Oh, I’m taking something for it, Sam. It’s called sleep. Goodnight.”

Again, a delayed response. “Uh huh.”

“Try not to summon any demons while I’m passed out, would ya?” GIngerly, Dean threw himself face down onto the pillows, and was only able to think of how he wished Sam would find hotels that came with The Magic Fingers, before he was lost to the world.

\-----------------------------

Pitch black burst into glowing red beneath his eyelids; Dean was kicked awake by morning. No, not morning--afternoon. Full sun streamed through the window with an alarming alertness. Fluttering and flustered, Dean shielded his eyes as he opened them, searching. The culprit stood by the window, pulling back the curtains even wider: Castiel. Dean groaned. “Must be nice to not have to sleep.”

Cas strode over to the kitchen sink, filling two glasses with water and setting one down next to Sam. Sam had fallen asleep at the mini-kitchen table, his hands still draped over the laptop keys. He lifted his head from a pile of drool as Castiel brushed past him.

“Wake up,” Cas said, marching over to Dean and gently placing the other glass down on the bedside table.

“Morning to you too, Cas.” Dean rubbed at his eyes, and rolled over onto his side.

“It is not morning, Dean. It’s the afternoon.”

Sam had stood up, groaning, and was now midway towards washing his face at the sink. “Did you find something, Cas?”

“I did. At least I think I did.”

As the Angel returned to his brother, Dean took a moment to slowly sit up. He winced. His back had gotten worse. He knew without looking at it that it was black and blue. What he wasn’t expecting though was the pain at his chest.

“What the..” he mumbled, glancing down at himself, momentarily surprised to discover breasts. “Oh. Right.” He must have slept on them wrong. His fucking boobs hurt because he had slept on them wrong. He stared up in exasperation, muttering, “ _Really_?”

Standing up slowly, Dean turned to discover Sam and Castiel had finished their discussion. Sam was now brushing his teeth, and Cas was staring intensely at Dean, who shifted uneasily under the sudden attention.

“What?”

Castiel blinked, quirking his head slightly. “You’re hurt.”

“Nah,” Dean made to walk with confidence and ease to the dresser; instead, he sort of stumbled, then hobbled, hunched over, with one hand bracing himself up along the bed. “‘M fine.”

But he didn’t bother to protest when the Angel came to him, wrapped an arm under his shoulders, and eased him back to sit on the bed. Sighing, he leaned into the hand he knew was coming. There was such total comfort in the warmth that spread from Cas’s fingers, soothing him as Cas knit him back together. He felt himself grunt deeply, closing his eyes.

“Your body is adjusting to the sudden changes put upon it, Dean.”

“Mm, yeah, that.” He blinked and smiled up at Cas, who stood with his neck craned down at an odd angle to stare at him. “Or it could be the fact that I fell through a house yesterday.”

Castiel’s brows creased deeper. “You need to be more careful, Dean.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He stood up, patting Cas on the shoulder--or, at least, he made to. He suddenly realized how much shorter he was than the Angel now. He actually had to tilt his head back to make eye-contact. “You’re tall.”

“My height has not changed.”

“Yeah, but...” Maybe it was because they hadn’t stood so close together last night, but Dean suddenly felt a very new vulnerability as he blinked up into the blue. Inexplicably irritated, he shoved roughly past him. “I’m not wearing my boots, that’s why.”

Making himself busy with getting ready, Dean eavesdropped grumpily on Sam and Cas’s conversation.

“So where is this guy?”

“That is where it gets complicated.”

“Complicated how?”

Dean could hear the grimace in Castiel’s voice. “I found the demon who originated the spell.”

“Well, where is he?”

“Confined. But _she_ is not the answer.”

“Well then, who is?”

Dean spat out his toothpaste, annoyed with the fact that along with a new body, he somehow had new teeth as well. Same, but different. Everything was different and he wanted to kick something. Or at least _do_ something. And in spite of the fact that Castiel had healed him, his boobs still hurt which was freaking annoying. He sighed and dried his face with the towel. “Can we get going already? I didn’t wake up this early for nothing.”

Cas turned to him. “It’s not early, Dean.”

“Whatever, ok? Let’s just go.”

He broke between them to get his gear, and Sam pulled a face. “What’s with you?”

Dean straightened, lifting his bag, and stared at them. “I’m gonna be a pumpkin in twenty-four hours, I’m freaking tired, and my tits hurt.”

Sam’s mouth twitched, and Dean threw up a finger. “I swear to God, say one word, and I will end you.”

Sam held up his arms in surrender as Castiel stood between them. Snapping his hands to their shoulders, the hotel dissolved around them.

Materializing in a quaint downtown, Dean spun around in place and took stock. For a small second, he wondered if Cas had taken them back in time as well, until he saw the town’s slightly run-down movie-theater and its posters. He made a mental note; _The Wedding Bride_ was out finally. He’d have to make some time to see it.

Castiel continued the conversation where it had left off, herding them gently under a rather malnourished looking tree. “It seems that our spell’s originator had a bit of a falling out with a former lover. We must find that former lover to break the spell.”

“Former lover being, I assume, the first guy-turned-gal?” asked Sam.

“Exactly.”

“Wouldn’t he be, well, _dead_ by now?”

Castiel grew quiet, and stared up at Sam, who leaned back and crossed his arms.

“He’s not dead by now?”

Cas lowered his voice, flicking his eyes between the two brothers. “The former lover just happens to be a still-very-much-alive vampire.”

Dean rolled his eyes and tutted. “Naturally.”

Castiel sighed, “Thus, you see the dilemma.”

“Great. So you plop us down right in the middle of vamp-town without any warning.” Dean stared at him, finding himself even more irritated than before. “Coulda given us a chance to prep ourselves, or drive the Impala down here, or--”

“Dean, there was no time. And you will find,” he gestured to the bag still clutched in Dean’s hand, his gravelly voice terse with stressed patience, “All the vampire hunting and killing paraphernalia you will need in there.”

As he spoke, Dean lifted the bag, judging its weight and making a face as he did so. It certainly did feel like the Angel had taken care of everything. He rolled his eyes, unwilling to let his anger go completely. “So you need us to find the den, is that right?”

“Unfortunately, yes. The name of the Vampire we seek is still... illusive to me. But I will get it out of the demon, and then come back to aide you.”

Sam squinted up at the sky. “Well, Cas, we haven’t got much time. I mean, the sun sets around 5 lately--we’re probably not going to find out where their nest is and be able to gank the right one before they wake up.”

“Yeah, and by the time we do figure it out,” Dean added, “It’ll be feeding time.”

Castiel nodded. “I understand. Believe me, I am working as efficiently as I can on my end. Go do what you do. I promise that, by no later than 6 o’clock tomorrow morning, I will have the information we need. Call me if I have not found you by then.”

He looked at Dean for a moment, eyes heavy with concern and something almost like comfort. Exhaling the breath he didn’t know he was holding, Dean blinked, feeling his irritation slowly ebb away...until Cas vanished from sight.

“I hate when he does that.”

“Which is all the time, Dean.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He flopped the bag down at their feet. “Well, this is perfect, really. We’re stuck in no-man’s land, with no Baby, no hotel room to rest in before we invade a nest of who-knows-how-many vamps, and we still don’t know exactly how to solve this problem. I’m feeling great about this.”

Sam shrugged. “Well, you wanna, find someplace to set up camp?”

But Dean wasn’t listening. Something had caught his eye across the street.

“No, no... you go ahead.” He picked up his bag and tossed it to Sam. “I’ll catch you up.”

“Dean, we--Dean!” Sam clutched the bag to his chest, his mouth stretched in annoyance. He watched his brother go, unendingly weirded out by Dean’s now-feminine shape.

\-------------------------------

Two hours later and Sam, clad in his suit (which he had discovered neatly folded in his bag) had checked into a small hotel room, crossed the street, and was halfway through interrogating the local bar flies. “Agent Navarro” was looking for some suspicious types, maybe new to town, etc. etc. It was amazing how the same questions asked to different people could produce such a wide variety of results. A woman who looked to be a day-time hooker proved fruitless, which was hardly surprising considering the type of people she must consider ‘odd’. A man who was clearly getting drunk on his lunch break proved slightly more helpful, but as always, the best source of information was the barkeep.

The bartender was a man in his late fifties, who looked as though he’d seen the bad end of a frying pan a few times too many. He was halfway through describing a gang of miscreants, whom Sam was fairly certain were exactly who he was looking for, when the bell above the door tinkled. Sam turned absent-mindedly, and ended up doing a double take, his jaw dropping to the floor in clear offense.

“Mornin’, bar-keep. Got something to keep a girl happy?”

Dean grinned; the look on Sam’s face was worth every penny his clothes had cost. His brother’s eyes widened dangerously, and his brows shot down. There was a wild sort of terror and anger creeping over his face.

“Dean, what the...”

In the end, it was highly possible that Dean had gone too far with what he was wearing. However, the prospect of being stuck like this for another whole night was less enticing when his pants kept slipping down. And after considering his form in the dressing room mirror, Dean figured that he might as well show it off while he could.

He had actually set out to find the lowest-scooping top he could to show off his newly defined cleavage. (And being fit for the bra to hold them in wasn’t half bad either. He’d had a really hard time not giggling when the shop-girl had slipped the tape under his breasts.) He didn’t even bother getting full on jeans--apparently just wearing something called “jeggings” was completely socially acceptable now. And _damn_ they made his ass look good. The only thing he hadn’t changed about himself, in fact, was his boots. He had tried high heels, and he had quickly quit the idea.

It was an intoxicating experience for Dean, realizing that he now possessed the sizable power of a womanly form. Just walking the distance from the store to the bar alone, Dean counted ten heads swiveling in his direction. This bartender was no exception. Dean smiled winningly up at him, sliding slowly across the barstool and leaning forward in the same way that he had seen girls do to him. His voice was almost an alien thing as he whispered, “That drink, sweetie? Anytime would be great.”

He gave an ostentatious wink, and watched as the bartender turned positively pink, slinking away and smiling stupidly to himself. Dean spun around in the stool, finally acknowledging Sam, who had not moved an inch or changed his expression.

“Whatcha think, Sammy? You got a babe for a sister, am I right?”

Sam blinked and shook his head, bringing his mind back into the conversation. When he spoke, his voice was low and covered. “Dean, what are you wearing.”

“I believe it’s called clothing.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Isn’t it a bit... _revealing_?”

“Yes it is, thank you for noticing.” Dean grinned up cheekily, tasting the cheap strawberry lipgloss he’d purchased. He opened his mouth to say more, but something in the corner caught his eye, and he looked over his brother’s shoulder. “Is... is that a microphone? Are we in a karaoke bar?”

“Karaoke every Friday and Saturday evening!” The bartender had returned. He had a way of speaking that made the days of the week sound like “dee”s as opposed to “day”s. He was pouring something pink and flowery into a martini glass in front of Dean, who failed to notice because his eyes were riveted to the mic-stand and speaker. “And fun sing-alongs every other Tuesday!”

Dean nodded. He phrased his next question very carefully, choosing his words. “What day is today, Sammy?”

Sam hesitated, then blurted out, “Sunday.”

“No it’s not,” piped the bartender, ever helpful.

“No, actually, I’m pretty sure it _is_.”

“You’re one day ahead, son! It’s Saturday!”

Dean felt the pit of his stomach drop out, and he slowly turned his stare to his brother, eyes wide. Sam blinked at him for a moment, then said, “Dean: _No_.”

“Come on.”

“I said no.”

“But Sammy--think of it. I can sing Steve Perry now.”

“You’ll never be able to sing Steve Perry.”

Dean’s jaw dropped, and he wordlessly gestured to himself. Because if it wasn’t already apparent to Sam, Dean was in a girl’s body. And he was willing to bet that this girl would be able to sing soprano.

The bartender leaned over, wriggling his eyebrows at Dean and winking at Sam. “Oh come on, Agent Navarro. Let your wife come and sing. I bet she’d be great for business.”

The two brothers turned around and stared at him. “We’re not married.”

“He’s my brother, man.”

“Oh!” The bartender flubbed about, looking for something to say. “Sorry. I just. I’ll be over here....” And he backed away, busying himself again with the far end of the bar. Dean rolled his eyes. “Why do people think we’re a married couple?” Sam wasn’t listening as Dean continued. “You’re not even my type.”

“Mhmm. Listen, I’m gonna go finish this investigation. Remember, that thing we were supposed to be doing? To turn you back into--” Sam gestured angrily at Dean. “Not this?”

He stalked away, and Dean sneered half-heartedly, reaching down and grabbing his glass. “I’m investigating,” he mumbled. “I’m just doing it differently, that’s all.”

He knocked back his head, and promptly spit everything back out again, drawing on the eyes of the bar. He stood up, indignant. “What the hell is this shit?”

The bartender looked up from the scrap of paper he was scribbling on for Sam. “It’s a cosmopolitan.”

Dean felt his jaw drop, then flop about aimlessly. “Do I look like the kind of guy who drinks Cosmos?”

There was a pause, and then a small, “No?”

“No. And you better remember it. You keep questioning the Princess here, Sam, I’m going elsewhere.”

Dean stormed out, completely forgetting to put any swish into his hips, failing at indignity in his slightly too large boots.


	3. Look Into the Future

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is karaoke, and Dean gets drunk. Very, very drunk.

Sam discovered Dean on the hotel bed. He was wrapped up in blankets, eyes glued to the television (which was playing Telemundo on mute). He didn’t so much as blink until Sam closed the door loudly.

“Dean?”

“...Hey, Sammy.”

“You ok?”

Dean shifted, tucking his chin deeper under the sheets. “‘M fine.”

Sam sat on the end of the bed, reaching a hand out and holding his brother’s foot through the comforter. “You’re not still pissed about that drink, are you?”

“What? Oh--No.” Dean sat up, short hair mussed, freckles standing out in sharp contrast in the stilted light. “I...what time is it?”

Sam flicked his wrist over. “Seven o’clock.”

“Holy crap.” Dean stared around, suddenly noticing the darkened windows. He took a breath, paused, and then asked, “No word from Cas?”

Sam shook his head. “I sent him a head’s up awhile back, but I haven’t heard anything. Besides, I’m sure he’d be looking for you if he knew something.”

“Huh, yeah right. You two are the productive ones on this venture.”

“You didn’t find anything, did you?”

Dean looked up, and his jaw jutted forward. For the first time, Sam really saw his brother inside the girl before him. “No, Sam. I did not. I did, however, get hit on. A lot. Everywhere, in fact.” He stood up, pacing angrily. “No one took me seriously, even when I put my coat back on and tugged _this_ stupid thing back up.” He pulled up flippantly on the shirt’s neckline.

Dean paused, hands resting on the back of a chair. “If I ever get the bright idea to go shopping again, Sammy, just kill me, ok?”

“It’s never worked before.”

Dean’s eyes widened, and after a moment he chuckled, “What, killing me?”

Sam shook his head, smiling sadly at his toes. “No, Dean. Stopping you.”

A moment of silence stretched between them until Sam broke it. “Wish you’d’ve taken me with you when you left the bar, or waited for me. I could’ve--”

“What, protected me? Please.”

Sam shrugged. “Something like that. Anyway, news to cheer you up--I think I’ve got the den located.”

Dean’s head snapped up as Sam continued. “Been out lookin’ for ya, figured you’d want in for scoping it out--”

“Why the hell didn’t you say so first thing, Sam?” Dean grabbed his coat and tossed it over his shoulders. Hopping about to put on his shoes, the arms of his coat flopped around lifelessly as he struggled to do two things at once. “Let’s go!”

\------------------------

It was about an hour’s uphill walk outside of town. Dean’s feet, still too small in his boots, had become so pained with the excursion in his unfit shoes, that he’d stopped at a grocer’s on the edge of town, bought tissues, and stuffed the ends of the shoes.

“Does it help?” asked Sam.

“Not really.”

Dean grunted and kept moving. If Sam had thought of a stuffing joke to make at that moment, he wisely sat on it.  
The cold of the sawed-off shotgun in Dean’s hands was a necessary attachment to the present. He lingered over it in an attempt to keep from dwelling on what had happened this afternoon. It had been humiliating in every sense of the word.

He had met men today that, on any other day in his normal form, Dean did not doubt that he would have been able to have a normal conversation with. But today, these men  had stared at Dean with the most brazen form of depravity. At first it had been empowering, and Dean had reveled in it. How many times had he been on the other side of that exchange, pliant to any beautiful woman’s wishes? Everything changed, though, when he questioned the gentlemen at the gas station.

The owner had in fact been a very nice man, but while speaking with him, Dean felt the heat of eyes upon him from behind. A glance over his shoulder acquainted him with the perpetrator--the mechanic. Stepping in from the attached garage, he was staring at Dean in all the wrong places and ways. With one slick pass of his tongue along his teeth, and his hands in his pockets sliding up and down in a sickening semblance of something far too real, Dean shuddered into the dark and about-faced as quickly as possible. He couldn’t leave fast enough.

This feeling was unpleasantly unfamiliar. He’d been afraid before, certainly. He’d been afraid in the face of ghosts, demons, vampires--all things that go bump in the night that had never stopped him from doing what he needed to do. But this kind of fear was accompanied by a vulnerability that was unwelcome and disturbing. He wished more and more that he had his baby parked there, just around the corner, so he could slide into the comfort of her arms and put his foot down. About two blocks away, when he finally felt safe, he mentally cursed Castiel again for leaving them here without the Impala.

For a split second, he contemplated Cas appearing, taking stock of the man, and going complete Angel on that creep. Dean smiled to himself. Say what you will about Dean’s womanizing, but he had never made any girl feel the way he just had now.

And then suddenly, he stopped. He hadn’t...had he?

And that troubling thought escorted him all the way back into town, into the only hotel, where it was easy to find their room and slip into the covers.

Dean gritted his teeth and fingered the trigger of the shotgun in his hands. He and Sam had been working on a new Vamp stunning method--dried Dead Man’s Blood in a shell-casing. Theoretically, it would work, but they hadn’t tested it yet. In all likelihood, they wouldn’t tonight either. The Vamps should be all out and about in the town. One or two guards would be left behind, of course, but as Sam had explained, just getting the scope of the situation itself was the aim of tonight. But if Dean had to kill anyone, he’d welcome it--anything to rid his mind of the haunting images plaguing it for the last hours.

They emerged low, hugging the branches that swept out before them in a graceful arch. Sam whistled gently, and flicked his head to the right, pulling Dean in to peer between the trees.

“Got it?”

Dean nodded bluntly, staring down the hill at a ramshackle cabin. It’s graying walls were held up by plywood, and there was the distinct impression that it would fall down given one strong gust of wind. “Smaller than I thought it’d be.”

“Yeah, me too.”

Dean hesitated. “...Sure I can’t go in there a pluck any of the bastards?”

“Dean, come on.”

“Sammy, I’m serious. Let’s just end this thing, here and now.”

“You know we need to wait for Cas to--”

There was a shuddering of air around them, and just like that, Dean knew who stood behind them. He turned around with a smile. “Speak of the Devil.”

Castiel’s brows narrowed. “Hardly.” He nodded to Sam. “Thank you calling me.”

Sam nodded in return. “Glad you could make it.”

Dean looked at Sam. “Ok, you said to wait for Cas, well Cas is here. So let’s go!”

He was halfway standing up when Cas’s hand gripped his shoulder hard and tugged him down. Dean, completely unaccustomed to being so easily physically manipulated, crumpled like paper into the soft leaves at their feet.

There was a tense moment as they waited to see if anyone, or anything, had heard them. Breathing shallow, Dean stared up into the black sky of stars, watching his breath frost above him, annoyed that Cas wasn’t easing up on the pressure.

“Cas...” He shifted. “Cas, come on, I get it. I’m not going anywhere.”

Cas blinked, and looked down, seemingly surprised to find himself still holding on to Dean. “I’m sorry, Dean. I wasn’t--”

“Yeah, yeah.” Dean sat up, huffing his shoulders. “I’m a woman, not incompetent.”

Cas’s head tilted, and he opened his mouth to speak, clearly hurt, when Sam interrupted. “What’s the plan, Cas?”

“We can’t simply go barging in and killing. It’s crucial that we find the correct vampire and get her blood,” Cas stared hard at Dean. “ _While_ she’s alive.”

“Of course,” Sam sighed.

Dean shrugged. “But we can gank the rest, right?”

Cas nodded. “But starting now would not be wise. I suggest we return to town. I have the name of the Vampire we seek, but not her physicality. We need to listen in, ask questions. That way, when morning comes--”

“We can show up and kill the others. Sounds lovely.”

Sam stood. “Cas, we can observe all we want but, if one of them takes someone tonight, you can bet your ass we’re following them. We’ll do what we have to do,” he glanced at Dean. “Regardless of the consequences.”

Castiel nodded and stood. “Of course, Sam. I would expect no less.” He reached out a hand to help Dean, then stopped himself awkwardly.

“Well then,” Sam dusted off his pants. “I guess we’re off to the local pub, yeah?”

Castiel watched for a brief moment as Dean stood, then raised his hands to their shoulders. In the split second before they were transported away, Dean felt his heart lift for the first time in a hours as he thought of the microphone stand in a lonely corner.

\----------------------

Although it was only eight o’clock, the bar was already hopping. Such is life in a small town. Dean suspected the crowd would start to filter out early to go driving into the surrounding farm lands, boozing and whoring. Saturday night, done up country-style. There was a small part of him that wondered, had he and Sam never become what they’d become, had they never left Lawrence, Kansas, would this be their kind of Saturday, too?

The bartender lifted his eyes to the door as they walked in and took stock warily. Clearly, he wasn’t overjoyed at the sight of them. He nudged his co-worker, then disappeared into the back. All the better for Dean, who didn’t care to deal with the potential of more pansy-drink making. He was gonna saddle himself up properly this time.

Popping the collar up on his jacket, he walked away, just as Sam began to speak. “Alright, let’s grab a bench and--Dean? Dean!”

“I’d like a scotch, please.” Dean smiled widely. “Make it a double.”

The new bartender, a man slightly younger but looking no less abused by life, shrugged and pulled the requested drink from beneath the counter. “Whatever you say, sweet-cheeks.”

“ _Hey_.” The bartender froze, looking up at Dean, who could feel his teeth grating against each other. “Don’t call me that.”

He tossed the contents back, downing it in two heavy slurps. Such a satisfying burn roared within him, and he raised his eyes once again to the microphone standing alone in the corner. He slammed the glass down on the counter. “Hit me again.”

There was, of course, one heavy miscalculation Dean hadn’t even considered for one second. Being trapped in a new, smaller body was changing the way he processed his alcohol.

\-----------------------

An hour had passed. Dean had not seen hide nor tail of Sam, and although he had been attempting to make himself busy with their investigative task, he hadn’t exactly left the barstool. A new bartender had shown up for her duty, and she was lovely, absolutely lovely to look at. Plus she seemed to understand that when Dean said double, he meant triple, and when Dean said “Uhnuhth,” he meant “Another.”

“You better get some water to wash that down with, sweetheart.”

Dean smiled up at her. She could call him whatever she wanted to. “I don’t have enough money for water, baby.”

She laughed and rolled her dark eyes, her long black hair sliding over her shoulders. “It’s on the house, okay?”

“Okay.” Dean sighed, completely oblivious to the fact that he was hardly sitting up straight in his chair. Slumped over the bar, he watched her for a moment. Then, steeling himself, he mumbled warmly. “So what’s it take to karaoke?”

“You wanna sing something?”

He laughed without any humor, and spoke almost directly into the wood of the bar. “No.” It wasn’t a very good lie, and the bartender clearly knew it.

“Well then,” She smiled, and coyly pulled out a binder from a hidden drawer. “I suppose you wouldn’t be interested in perusing our song selections, then, would you?”

\------------------

Meanwhile, Sam and Castiel sat in a dark corner of the bar, eyes low over their beers. There had been a couple of leads here and there, and a couple of moments where Sam had, adrenaline pumping, raised himself up and nonchalantly followed a pair of blinking warning signs. But it had been to no avail.

“This is ridiculous. We’re wasting time here.”

Castiel shifted, completely uncomfortable with the atmosphere. His beer was, of course, completely full and untouched, and he’d protested Sam getting him one even for appearance’s sake. He sighed. “I agree. It is possible the vampires--” (Sam rolled his eyes at the complete lack of voice-lowering for such a keyword.) “--are not coming to this place tonight.”

Sam opened his mouth to concur, when something caught his eye.

“Oh no.”

“What?”

Castiel turned around, and together they stared up at the small corner stage, where Dean, in his girlish form, heaved himself up, a drunk grin stretched from ear to ear. The pretty bartender was aiding him, lending a hand as she took the mic. “Alright everyone, I want you all to give a big hand to our first singer of this Saturday night, Miss Dean Perry!”

Sam groaned and dropped his head in his arms. Castiel hesitated. “I don’t understand. What is he--?”

But the first chords of music cut him short. After a listening for a moment, Castiel turned to Sam. “Dean is going to sing.”

“Oh yeah. _Faithfully_ , from the sounds of it.”

“But, why would--”

“ _Highway run! Into the midnight sun_.” Dean’s voice popped. He was clearly still adjusting to the idea of singing higher. “ _Wheels go round and round--you’re on my mind!_ ”

Dean smiled, settling into it, feet planted firmly on either side of the mic stand. “ _Restless hearts...sleep alone tonight. Sending all my love along the wire--they say that the road ain’t no place to start a family! Right down the line it’s been you and me!_ ”

And, embarrassingly enough, Dean’s eyes found Sam and Cas’s corner. He saw them and turned to them and proceeded to sing the rest of the verse directly to them, arms outstretched. “ _And loving a music man ain’t always what it’s supposed to be! Oh Girl, you stand_ \--YES YOU BROTHER OF MINE AND YOU CAS--YOU stand BY ME. _I’m FOREVER YO-OUUUUURSSSSSCastieeeeeeeeel Faithfully!_ ” He grinned cheekily as Castiel’s jaw dropped. “See what I did there, Cas? With the faith bit? That’s for you, buddy!”

Castiel flushed and gripped his chair tight. He stared at Dean, wordless, nostrils flaring and turning white. Sam, hiding behind his hand, completely unsure of whether or not to laugh or to be angry, looked up at him. “Cas, you ok?”

Dean had broken his attention off from them, and he was currently jamming out on invisible drums and synthesizers to the entertainment of a nearby table of also-drunks. Castiel rose unsteadily. “I’m... going to go get some air.” But he didn’t leave through the front door; he walked back to the restroom and disappeared.

Sam stared after him. Castiel never took bathroom breaks. He didn’t need them. Turning his gaze back on his brother (who was mid-second verse and hitting all kinds of high-notes in all of the wrong places), he watched him darkly. “ _We all need clowns to make us smile_ HAAAA SAMMY CLOWNS!”

It was an absolute wreck. And Sam thought it a very good thing Cas hadn’t come back yet. In every other chorus spot of _Faithfully_ , Dean was subbing in Cas’s name. “CAS-TI-EEELL-ELL-ELL-ELLL-ELLL!”

\------------------

When Cas finally did re-appear, it was an hour later. Sam was up, getting another beer from the bar, trying desperately to ignore his brother’s third round on the microphone, currently jamming _Renegade_. He had deftly avoided Dean’s attempts to bring him up for an impromptu duet, and was so completely irritated with everything that he was about to forget Castiel and Dean altogether and go out hunting on his own. So when the Angel appeared at his shoulder, he jumped. “Sam.”

“Aah! Cas. Geez. Where have you been?”

“I have been...invisible. I decided I would get more done that way and would avoid any other kind of...” He trailed off, almost looking at the karaoke corner but stopping himself. “Attention.”

“Uh huh.” Sam waited, and as usual, Castiel’s explanation needed prompting. “You found something?”

Cas smiled. “I know what she looks like.”

“You--you do?”

“Yes. Now we just need to collect your brother, and we can finally go.”

“Collect me and go where?” Dean had popped up between them, sweating and smiling like an idiot, hair plastered to his face and his jacket hanging lopsidedly off of one shoulder. “Oo, wait--Linda!”

Linda, who was apparently the bartender, turned around. Dean wrapped an arm around Sam. “This is my brother, Linda! The one I told you about!”

“Oh!” Linda smiled. “I see. Hello, Sam.”

Sam held up a hand awkwardly as Dean continued. “He’s a great guy, you should--hey.” His eyes darkened as the old bartender re-appeared from the back. He glared at him over her shoulder. “You. Cosmo-man. This is my brother. Not my husband. Got it?”

The bartender rolled his eyes and shuffled away. Linda smiled at him. “And so who’s this one then, hmm?” Her eyes stared approvingly at Castiel, who was hunched awkwardly behind the brothers, clearly wishing he had stayed invisible.

“This? Oh this,” Dean turned, smiled, and wrapped his arms slowly around Cas. “This is Castiel. He’s an Angel.”

Sam tilted his head warningly. “ _Dean_.”

Dean waved him off. “Yes, yes, he’s just _angelic_ , you know? Loyal and kind--he’s saved my ass tons of times, and that’s saying a lot because most angels are dicks, amiright Sammy?”

“I--sure.”

“Well then,” Linda grinned, leaning herself over the bar slowly, eyes lighting up. “Nice to meet you, Castiel.”

There was a brief moment of silence, wherein Cas raised his eyes up to Linda, smiled tensely, and Dean was perfectly, perfectly still. Then, suddenly, Dean burst out with, “Yeah, we’re married.”

“Oh?” Linda retreated slightly. “I didn’t know you were married.”

“Yeah! Three years, and still as happy as newly weds!”

Sam stared open-mouthed at Dean, who had plastered himself even more tightly against the Angel. Sam looked at Cas, who had gone completely ashen and was frozen in place. Dean released the Angel and flounced up to the bar. “You got my next song ready?”

“Dean,” Sam interrupted, grabbing his arm gently, “We really should be going.”

“What? But--my next song--” He gestured at the mic, standing empty and ready.

“We’ve got everything we need, Dean.” And he emphasized the words so much that even as drunk as he was, Dean could read them loud and clear. A smile started to creep across his face. “That’s... that’s awesome, Sammy. Thank you.”

And thinking everything was resolved, Sam let go of Dean’s arm--only to see Dean whisk away up to the stage like lightning.

“Ladies and Gentlemen!” Dean spread his arms wide, smiling without a single care in the world. “I hate to tell you this, but it’s time for my last song.”

There were, surprisingly, a few ‘Aww’s scattered around the crowd.

“I know, I know. And believe me, it has been an honor to finally sing these songs the way they were meant to be sung--above the register and loud and proud. So to end this right, let’s bring up my favorite people in the whole world--my brother Sam, and my Angel Cas. Get up here, you two!”

There was no avoiding it now. Every single eye in the house had followed Dean’s direction and was now staring at the pair of them. Sam gritted his teeth and gripped Castiel on the shoulder. “Come on, Cas. Let’s get this over with.”

With the three of them crowded around one mic on a small stage, Sam waited, and then groaned, for the song he knew was coming. _Don’t Stop Believing_. How many times had Dean shut off the radio or fast-forwarded the cassette tape saying how over-played and over-hyped this song was? All lies, and Sam knew it.

Cas, at first, didn’t really sing. Neither did Sam. But Dean was not about to let them get away with it. His last song was really more Sam and Castiel’s song, for which he sang back-up ridiculously high and at all the wrong times.

And as the song ended and the chorus began repeating itself ad nauseam in its fade out, Sam stepped off the stage. He looked back at his brother to usher him along, only to find him watching Castiel.

Cas’s eyes were plastered in complete terror at the lyrics screen, trying desperately to keep up with the music and time, trying to please Dean, trying to end this horrible nightmare. But Dean’s face...

Sam had never seen Dean look so completely happy. Yes, he was drunk, and yes he was riding out this last high, the only high he’d really seemed to enjoy about being a girl, but the way he was staring at Cas... his eyes were alight and his arm was wrapped around his shoulders as they shared the mic; he was fucking _glowing_ with happiness.

The audience clapped. Dean grinned and waved, bending for his bow and taking Castiel with him. Sam did not doubt for one second that this crowd thought they were married--he was starting to believe it himself.


	4. Burning Sky; Morning Sun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The curse reversed, lessons learned, and new knowledge unlocked from within.

For the second day in a row, Dean woke up in immense pain. He didn’t realize it at first, when Sam shook him awake by the shoulder. But the moment he shifted his head split into two. Sam’s “Hey, get up,” was ringing around his head like it had been spoken through a loud-speaker. As he started to sit up, his stomach churned unpleasantly.

“...Uhghgod.”

Sam’s boots thumped with an absurd volume against the floor. “How you feelin’, Dean?”

Dean knew that question. It was the kind of question that was asked with a smile, usually directed at someone after a night of heavy drinking. In fact, it was often asked the moment one even appeared mildly intoxicated. It was an obnoxious status check-in that was seemingly designed by sober people to belittle you for your choices--at least, that’s the way it seemed in the morning.

So Dean chose not to answer. He gamely pulled himself upright, trying in vain to ignore the swimming sensation in his head, seemingly determined to drown out his ability to stand up straight. He turned to walk to the bathroom and tripped over his own shoes. Sam must have taken them off last night.

“Dean, we need to get going.”

“Wuttimizzit?”

Sam blinked at him as he mentally translated. “It’s five o’clock.”

“Ugh!” Dean tripped over to the sink and filled a glass with water. “Whydyouwakeme up so early, Sam?” He tilted his head back and sipped, segmented parts of last night flashing through his mind in a nightmarish barrage.

“Vampires? Killing them? You, as a man, suddenly no longer a man anymore? Remember any of that?”

“Shaddup.” Dean stared down at the ground, feeling suddenly like water wasn’t such a good idea. In fact...

It had been years since he had been so drunk that he threw up. Years longer since he’d been so hungover he’d thrown up. Records, however, are made to be broken.

“Well,” he heard Sam say over the flushing of the toilet. “Feeling better?”

Dean groaned ungainly. “Why did you let me drink so--so...” he seized, then gripped the porcelain tight, heaving himself repeatedly over the edge of the bowl.

“I know I’ll never forget where I was the night Dean Winchester was a light-weight. I remember it as though it were only yesterday... Oh, wait!--”

Dean made to say “Shut up” again but vomited instead.

It was some time later, when he emerged hunched over and shaking from the bathroom, he comprehended that the low buzzing he’d thought was in his head was actually Sam talking to a recently arrived Castiel. Dean stared at them, as they turned and took stock. Sam shrugged. “Well?”

Dean sniffed gamely. “Let’s do this.”

Except that he took one step forward and had to turn right back around again. As he coughed, he heard Sam say, “Cas, please help him. We’ve got to get moving.”

The Angel sighed heavily as Sam continued under his breath, as though Dean couldn’t hear him, “He can learn his lesson another time.”

But Dean was too sick to be indignant or pretend that what they’d said mattered. He leaned over the bowl, tiny head hanging desperately onto his arms. He wanted to explain, to tell Cas it was all an accident and that he’s normally much more responsible than this, but all he could do was breathe deeply and shudder.

It came again as he knew it would, the warmth that radiated from Cas as he stepped up and placed a hand against him. Dean sighed, shoulders shaking, leaning back into him--only to lose his balance and fall.

“Ow!” He stared up at Cas, who had, contrary to normal, merely touched Dean’s shoulder once and then immediately moved away. In fact, he had moved so quickly,  Dean wouldn’t have been surprised if he had Angel-mojoed himself back to Sam’s side. He caught Cas’s eyes for a split second before the Angel looked away; Castiel positively glowered at him. Dean blinked, then smiled.

“You’re sexy when you’re pissed, Cas.”

And instead of the eye-roll he had expected, instead of the gruff shove-off and holier-than-thou demeanor, Cas’s eyes bulged and his nostrils flared, and he whipped his head around to Sam. “I’ll meet you outside.”

He vanished.

Dean stared at his brother, who apparently found the floor very interesting. “What the hell is his problem?”

“No idea,” Sam lied. “Shall we go?”

Dean’s head tilted. “Sammy...”

“Dean, just--” Sam finally looked at him sharply, “Can we go and do this already?”

Well, fuck if everyone wasn’t pissed at him today. Dean had a great suspicion that his antics last night had something to do with this. Naturally he only remembered little bits of it. But it would come it him. And when it did he could get everyone’s panties out of a twist and fix it. Only this time he’d be a dude, which would be so fucking nice, because his boobs hurt today from sleeping on them wrongly, again. He had a feeling that Cas had noticed and left them that way.

\------------------

They appeared in the brushes a few hundred feet from the house, fluttering into the leaves and immediately crouching into action. Dean had his machete swung across his back, a loaded syringe of dead man’s blood, and the special blood-casings in a stock holder around his middle.

They were looking for a blonde. Not just any blonde, but a rather plump one with dark brown eyes. Her true name was Phillip, but as Cas had discovered last night, she would probably respond to Phyllis. Dean joked that he’d just try “Phil.” Neither Sam nor Cas had laughed.

Now it was a small waiting game. Dean could see the purple fingers of dawn stretching themselves across the sky, catching on clouds and rustling the birds from their slumber. He flicked his eyes down to his watch. Six o’clock. Six hours until he turned into a pumpkin; thirty minutes until they changed that fate.

When the sun rose up orange over the trees and melted the frost into fog, the brothers and the Angel moved in.

To be honest, they had fought in worse dens with higher numbers, but they also never had to be so careful before. So when Dean discovered that the first vampire he came across, snuggled into her hammock, was a blonde, he knew it wasn’t possible to be that lucky. He wouldn’t know until she opened her eyes.

Which unfortunately happened while he was peering down at her.

She was exceptionally tall, and as she leaped out of her covers, Dean was once again reminded of how small he now was. Not that it mattered much. He was trained and knew what to do, and he absolutely had the advantage. He kicked her feet out from under her, landing her flat on her back with his hand at her throat. He stared down at her--blue eyes. Still, though...

“What’s up, Phil?”

She blinked up at him, “Huh? What the fu--”

“Awesome, not Phil.” And her head clipped clean off her shoulders as he swung the machete down.

Within minutes he got to discover just how well their experiment worked. Grabbed from behind, he lost balance and toppled over, feeling a sick weight and heat pressing over him. “Aren’t you a pretty little hunter?”

“Nope!” Dean pulled the trigger of the gun, pointed straight at the vampire’s head. The Vamp hissed and rolled away, scrambling at the fraying chips of his skull and heaving. Dean cracked a grin. “I’m a fucking gorgeous little hunter.”

The machete whirled and did its work as Dean looked up and took stock of Sam and Cas’s progress. They were mid fray as well, with several vampire bodies scattered about them. The room lit up as Castiel slew them in the most righteous way possible, grabbing their faces and shoving them down like the little bitches they were.

As Dean scanned the room he re-loaded his rifle, glancing at the door as something caught his eye. A shock of blonde hair was running fast.

Now, more than ever, Dean was happy he’d invented a Vampire-gun.

_BLAM_ \--!

The bullet caught her in the back and she fell, twitching as the poison filled her body. In ten steps Dean was at her, flipping her over and staring. Brown eyes. “Hello, Phillip.”

The room lit up with light again as Castiel killed the last vampire. In all of ten minutes, it was over.

\-----------------

In moments, Cas had brought them all back to their hotel room. Not to the one in po-dunk nowhere, but to their original hotel room, where all their things still lay waiting for them. Dean smiled. Just being this close to his baby made him feel immensely better. That and, of course, having the cure to his spell folded over limp in his hands. For extra measure, Sam had injected the Vampire with the syringe of blood, although Dean had at first protested. He had wanted to see how long his bullet would stun her for, although perhaps now was not the time.

While the boys tied her up, Cas disappeared for a moment, then reappeared with a vile of blood and a drinking glass in his hands. When Dean looked at him questioningly, he explained, “The demon’s blood.”

“Ah.”

Dean tried to ignore the fact that this blunt conversation was the most they’d spoken to each other this whole morning, and he and Sam tightened the ropes. Not that there was much point in doing so. The double hit of poison was doing its work. The Vampire could only glare at them resentfully.

“Torture, then?” Her head lulled to the side, mouth barely able to move to pronounce the words. “How nice of you.”

“Don’t mention it!” Dean smiled darkly. “We’re always here to do our part in making you fuckers feel totally miserable.”

The Vampire narrowed her eyes at him, and then took a breath, staring between him and his brother. “Oh God...The Winchesters.” She ducked her head, almost laughing, if she’d had the muscle control to be able to do so. She blinked up at Dean. “What the hell happened to you?”

“Oh, I think you know what happened to him. See, we know a little bit about you, Phyllis,” Sam said, standing next to his brother and looking down at her. “Some things from long ago.”

She rolled her eyes.

“We’ve done our homework,” said Dean, staring down at her. “Once upon a time, in a sad little world called your former life, you met a girl. A girl who just happened to be a witch.”

Phillip said nothing. She blinked at them as Sam continued. “Turns out her little spell went better than she’d ever dreamed.”

“And now look at you.” Dean kicked at her feet. “Stuck as a princess at the ball.”

“Look who’s talking.” Phillip grinned lopsidedly at Dean. Dean opened his mouth to retort when Castiel stepped between him and Sam and crouched down to the Vampire’s level. Clearly, he had been busy while they had been talking. The blood from the demon was no longer pure red. It was bubbly and frothy, and it swirled in the glass with flecks of God-knew-what in it. Dean shuddered, trying not to think about how he would be drinking it in a few moments.

“Excuse me,” said Cas, and in spite of his politeness, he pulled out his Angel blade and stabbed at the neck of the Vampire with a brutality that made even Dean wince. He grimaced at the unpleasant gurgling noise and tried to ignore how much blood was getting into the carpet. He muttered to Sam, “We really should have put a cloth down.”

After a few moments, Castiel passed the cup, now practically overflowing, to Sam and stood. He vanished from sight for a moment, then returned with a small, black cauldron, already steaming. Dean stared at him. “What’s that?”

“It was the original cauldron used to create the spell. Sam,” he wriggled his fingers at him, taking the cup as it was given and pouring it gently into the cauldron.

“Wow,” said Dean, “Where on earth did you find that?”

Cas stared down into the pot, stirring it with his blade. He did not answer. Dean opened his mouth again when Cas cut him off. “I needed to burn away the Dead Man’s Blood, which would have been an unrepairable impurity. And it was advised to cook the cure in the pot from whence the curse originated. Here--”

He turned, having scooped the new mixture into a glass, and stared at Dean, “Drink it.”

“But--” Dean looked at it, taking it gingerly. “It’s still boiling--”

“Dean, you will be fine. But you must take it now.”

Looking at Sam, who stared worriedly back, he shrugged. “Bottom’s up.” He tossed his head back, and immediately regretted everything. Castiel was a lying little fuck because mother fucker this shit burned. His skin was coming off and he tore at his mouth with his fingers, feeling them creep inside him and down his esophagus until there was nothing left, until he was a shattering, empty core, red and raw and bruised and awful and--

Everything stopped. His throat was raw, his fingers twitched at his sides, and he was covered in sweat, but he was alive. Somewhere he had fallen to the floor, and he was looking up at the faces of Sam and Cas, who stared at him wildly. They reached down and hauled him up to sit on the edge of the bed. “Dean!” cried Sam. “Dean, are you ok?”

He opened his mouth to reply, but nothing came out. He cleared his throat, feeling his voice pop as he spoke. “‘M fine, Sammy, I--” He took a deep breath, and as he finished his sentence, he felt his voice slip back down, low and humming with resonance in his chest. “I’m ok.”

He gazed at them, then down at his hands, which were weathered and brown and manly. Quickly, he bounded into the bathroom and peeled back the door, staring into the mirror. “It worked!”

“Of course it did,” he heard Castiel say, but he couldn’t deny the level of relief in the Angel’s voice. Dean grinned at himself in the mirror. “Welcome back, you handsome bastard.” He made to pull at the waistband of his jeans when he realized he’d almost burst out of them. “Woah! Sammy, toss me my clothes, man!”

After a moment, he heard the sound of his clothes plopping into view. Snatching at them, he hastily divested himself of his girlish garments and said a fond hello to his most favorite missing member. “Never shall we part again, old friend.”

Grinning to the point of laughing, he shucked on his jeans and briefly peered around the door, watching as Cas bent down to the Vampire, who still sat slumped on the chair. “I believe, if we kill him now, and I kill the demon, this spell will never work again.”

“You believe?” asked Sam, staring at him doubtfully.

Castiel shrugged. “It is worth a try.”

“Go ahead...” said a dark, female voice.

Dean was half listening, half examining his chest in the mirror, practically petting his pecs and abs and shoulders. But when he realized that the Vampire had spoken, he whipped his head around the door once again and stared, watching as the Vampire leaned her head up to grin at Castiel. “Every second was worth it.”

Without giving her a chance to explain, Cas threw a hand to her forehead and exterminated her, his light bouncing around the room long after the deed was done. Sam shielded his eyes for a moment and looked at him. “What did that mean?”

“I assume she was referring to the supposed ‘life-lessons’ that were meant to be taught by that spell. The demon kept going on and on about that.” He grunted and wiped his hand on a handkerchief. “It was, apparently, a very noble thing she did.”

Sam tutted, but behind the door, Dean made eye contact with himself. _Every second was worth it_... was it? What had Phillip learned in his hundreds of years as a woman? What had been his original reaction to his change? As glad as Dean was to have his body back, there was a part of him, a small but ever-present part of him, that regretted seeing himself in the mirror again. He was no longer able to hide.

Still, it was a totally dick spell that no one should ever have to go through. And it was over. “Well,” he said, tugging his shirt over his head and finally moving to rejoin the two. “That’s that.”

Sam looked up. “Yup.” Then, after a brief moment, he smiled, “Good to have you back, Dean.”

They grinned at each other as Dean clapped him on the shoulder. “Admit it. You liked having a sister.”

“You make a terrible sister, Dean.”

“I do not. Come on, Cas, tell him.” He posed. “I was one righteous lady.”

Castiel looked at him, and Dean felt rather than saw him raise an eyebrow. “Hardly.”

Dean sighed. He was done. He was done with the attitude and the snark and the glaring--and it burst from him like fire. “Ok Cas: _what_.”

“Excuse me?”

“What the fuck is with you?”

Sam stood up, holding his hands out. “Ok, guys, I think we should just--”

“No no, Sam, this is important. Because clearly something crawled up Cas’s butt, and I’d really like to know what.”

Cas bristled, his eyes darkening and the air around him crackling. “Did I, or did I not, just help you out, Dean Winchester.”

“Yes Cas, you did, you did help me. But I’d say from the way you’ve been acting, you’d’ve much rather been doing something else.” Which wasn’t true. Even as Dean said it, he saw the image of Castiel leaning over him in fear, saw the concern and panic in his blue eyes as Dean awoke from his transformation. “Damn if it wasn’t like pulling teeth all morning long. So sorry to have kept you from your important Angel business.” 

“On the contrary, Dean,” Castiel practically growled. “I’m quite glad you’re back to being you. I’m afraid I couldn’t tolerate one more day of you as a woman, let alone a lifetime.”

Dean opened his mouth to protest, when he suddenly became aware that the door to their room was opening. He flicked his head around to stare at Sam, who was halfway out and now stood trapped like a deer in headlights. “Where are _you_ going?”

“I just--I’m... gonna go get a soda.” Sam’s mouth flapped for a moment. “I’m... thirsty.”

And before Dean could respond, he slammed the door shut and was gone. Dean rounded on Cas, who looked at though he was about to exit much the same. “Oh hell no, don’t you fucking wing out on me. Tell me what the hell is wrong, Cas. I mean, what exactly did I do to you?”

Castiel gritted his teeth together. “Dean, I don’t want to--”

“What? What the hell did I do that was so bad, Cas, because you can’t even look at me right now.” Which _was_ true. Castiel was staring at his shoes. But, after a moment, when it seemed he couldn’t escape, he looked back up at Dean, and there was something very chilling in his eyes. It wasn’t anger, it wasn’t rage--Dean didn’t know what it was. It stopped him cold.

“Dean... you were so different.”

“Well, I was a girl, you know.”

“No, Dean, I--your behavior. You behaved so differently.”

“Well, Cas,” and Dean shook his head. “I was pretty drunk last night. And I’m sorry about that--”

“You think I haven’t seen you drunk before?” Cas stared him down. “That’s not what this is about.”

“Well then, what is it about?”

“You were... _licentious_ , Dean.”

Dean pulled a face. “Licentious?”

“Yes.”

Dean found himself smiling. “Well, come on, Cas. Aren’t I always a little bit...” he turned the word around in his mouth, fighting the urge to giggle as he said it, “Licentious?”

“Yes, but you’ve never--you’ve never...” Cas sighed, giving up on his words, head sinking onto his chest. Finally, he muttered, “You changed the way you acted around me, because you were a woman.”

Dean stopped. “What? No I did not.”

“You have never, ever, treated me the way you did last night, Dean. And it--” Castiel’s hands wrung his trench coat into bunches at his sides. “I couldn’t bear it. Dean, you treated me like I was...Like I was your...”

There was a long pause, and when Castiel looked up, when he finally clicked eyes with Dean, Dean at last could place the emotion he saw. He’d seen it before on Cas, but today it resonated like never before. It was heart-ache. But that kind of feeling was too complicated, too messy, so it couldn't be right. Because there was simply nothing to be heart-broken over. So Dean offered a smile and tried to bridge the gap. “Well, you know I didn’t mean anything--I was drunk, Cas.”

And if it was possible, the look in Castiel’s eyes sunk lower. For one second, it was physically painful to keep eye-contact, and then the air around Cas changed suddenly. He set his jaw and blinked at Dean, hardening over as he whispered.

“Dean. Do not ever again...” He swallowed audibly. “Do not ever again treat me like I mean more to you than I really do.”

And he waited one moment; a moment in which Dean was sure he was supposed to say something to make it better, but he didn’t know what. He opened his mouth to speak, heart bursting in his chest to fix it, but Castiel had vanished.

Standing in complete silence, it wasn’t until Sam spoke that he realized he wasn’t alone. “So...” Sam tapped his fingers on his soda can. “You want me to move that body, or...?”

Dean blinked, noticing only now that the dead Vampire was still in the room. “Oh. I... sure.”

Sam popped his lips and mouthed a silent “Okay,” before he ripped the sheets from the bed and laid them out, untying the knots around the Vampire’s feet and hands and ungainly trying to shift him. “Uh... a little help would be nice.”

Half aware of his movements, he helped Sam lower the body down onto the sheets. “What the hell was that about?”

He was really more asking himself than his brother, but he was all too aware that Sam’s body tensed. He looked at him expectantly. “Well?”

Sam sighed. “We’re really going to need some bleach for that carpet.”

“Fuck the carpet. I’m asking you a question, Sammy. What the fuck was that about?”

Maybe it was because of how tired they both were, but Dean hadn’t expected Sam to crack that easily. “Well, he had a point, Dean.”

“Oh? And what point was that, exactly?”

“You were treating him differently.” Sam blinked at him, looking rather like a dog expecting to be yelled at for chewing up the sofa.

“What the fuck, Sammy. I thought you were getting a soda. Just how long were you standing there?”

“I--well--the soda didn’t take as long as I expected--”

“Bullshit. You should mind my fucking privacy, Sammy.”

“Oh, really? That’s interesting.” Sam stood up. Dean had finally pushed the right buttons. “Mind your fucking privacy? The whole damn bar was minding your fucking privacy last night.”

Dean stared at him. “What?”

“Jesus, Dean, you were all over him.”

“All over who?”

“Cas!”

Dean blinked. “Cas?”

“Yes, Cas. Castiel, remember him? The guy that just saved your ass from permanent womanhood? He’s kind of important to us.”

Dean held up a hand. “Ok, just what the hell do you mean, ‘all over him’?”

“Well Dean, I’m pretty sure every resident in that town thinks that the two of you are married. Now, I’m not sure if that’s because you were singing to him, or because you told everyone that he was your husband. You’d have to ask them.”

Even as Sam said these words, even as Dean opened his mouth to deny them, the memories came rushing back. They were foggy, but they stood on their own. His mouth flopped for a moment before he settled on, “I only said that to protect him.”

“Oh really?”

“Yes.” As he spoke, the memories became more solid, and he could see Linda again, leaning over the bar and staring at Cas. “Yes, in fact. You remember the way that bartender was looking at him? She was gonna eat him up, Sam!”

“But you were perfectly fine with her taking me home.”

“That--that’s different, Sammy. You are completely capable of taking care of yourself. Cas is not. That kind of girl would--”

“Dean,” Sam closed his eyes. “You sang his name during _Faithfully_.”

“... Did I?”

“Yes.”

“Well,” he paused. “That’s pretty fucking clever, don’t you think?”

“Jesus.” Sam shook his head and turned his attention back to the dead body, rolling it up with renewed vigor. “If you want to fucking joke about this, then go ahead.”

“But Sam, I don’t get it. I don’t get how this isn’t a joke. Why the hell are we having this conversation? Why the hell was Cas so pissed about this?”

Sam sighed heavily, looking up at his brother. “You really don’t know.”

Dean flopped his hands to his side. “I really don’t know.”

Sam laughed darkly, staring at a spot on the wall as he shook his head. “Dean, you’re my brother and I love you. But you’re a fucking idiot.”

Dean narrowed his eyes. “Fuck you.”

“No, actually, I’m serious.” Sam stood, hands steepled into a point, as he stared down at his older brother. “Because if you don’t get this, then I don’t think that I can help you. Because I saw the way you looked at him last night, and _I_ fucking get it. I got it.”

Dean’s heart pounded loudly in his ears and he tried to ignore it. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Dean, you were up there singing with him, staring at him like he was the greatest thing on Earth to you, and I just thought to myself, how many times have I seen him look at Cas that way? And I just kind of... realized.” Sam shrugged at his brother. “Maybe I only clued in last night because your face was different, and I was seeing you, but not you. Or maybe it’s because your eyes are even bigger as a girl, but I swear to God, I wasn’t the only one who saw it.”

Dean didn’t know why there was a lump in his throat. That was the only thing that had kept him from stopping Sam, from shutting him up and stopping this fucking nightmare from unfolding. The blood was pounding in his ears and his heart was thundering. Finally, he worked the knot loose.

“What exactly...” he swallowed. “Are you saying, Sam.” Sam opened his mouth but Dean cut him off. “That I’m gay? That I’m fucking gay for Cas? Is that what you’re saying?”

“Dean,” Sam said calmly, voice almost as low as Dean’s. “All I’m saying is that you called him your husband.”

“I was _drunk_.”

“Yeah, and your point? Dean that wasn’t someone else walking around in a Dean-as-a-girl suit, that was _you_. You were the one making those choices and calling those shots.”

“So, I’m gay. I’m gay, and all the tits and pussy and girls-girls-girls was just a big cover-up operation for my major-raging-hard-on boner for dudes? Thank you so much for the psychoanalysis Dr. Kinsey--”

“--Dean--”

“--Come on, Sam! You _know_ me--”

“Yes! I do! I do know you! Know you better than anyone, actually, so please will you listen to me when I’m telling you--”

“--so you’re not only telling me I’m gay, but you’re also telling me how to feel?”

“No Dean, I’m not! All I’m saying is this: I know you. I know you, I know what makes you happy. And this is Cas.”

“I don’t have to listen to thi--”

And Dean was halfway to the door when Sam grabbed him by the shoulder and stared at him. “Dean, stop.” And for a moment it worked. Dean’s jaw clicked as he gritted his teeth. He stared at the door and tried his hardest not to listen, but the words pounded through him over and over again, reverberating in his head. “I know what it’s like to see you in love, Dean. I know it because I’ve seen it before. And I could tell you everything you never wanted to hear about sexuality being fluid, about gender being secondary when it comes to love, but the bottom line is this: I have never seen you look at anyone the way you looked at Cas last night. You looked so happy. So, Dean, just...fucking go out and get him and be happy. Jesus fucking Christ,” and Sam released his shoulder. “Is it so hard for us to be happy?”

Dean’s chest heaved. He ignored the heaviness in his eyes and his soul. He reached down to the bedside cabinet and grabbed his keys. Slamming the door behind him, he slipped into the leather embrace of the Impala and drove off into the blazing sun.


	5. Wish You Were Here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The truth is met with open hearts.

For a while, there was no sense to Dean’s thoughts. His brain was a jumble of fire and rage, and for some reason there was a pricking behind his eyes that wouldn’t go away, causing his throat to clench up in an infuriating way. He worked at it maddeningly, swallowing rougher and rougher, grabbing at it as though he could will it to relax by sheer force. But nothing helped... except for the moment when he turned off the lighted streets, entered onto the highway, and dropped his foot.

She always responded with such vigor.

God what satisfaction to hold onto this--to hold onto this moment of control and power. She didn’t purr beneath him, she roared. The windows were down, and the cold air was streaming in, and he felt alive and free. Finally, so fucking free. He felt himself smile. Fuck Sam, let him say what he wanted to. None of it mattered with the wind in this hair.

He fiddled with the dial, checking the radio stations absently to little avail. They were staying in a town middle from nowhere, so no station came in perfectly clearly. Those that did were vastly unappealing in their content. He had just flashed past an evangelical station when he grunted aloud in frustration and popped in a cassette tape.

He listened for a moment. Metallica.

No, not right now.

Something else.

Eyes on the road, he fished in the box and popped in another. Simon and Garfunkel? Really Sam? (Of course, he let it play for a good few minutes before he took it out on principle.)

Three attempts later, and he gave up, settling into the sound of wind and the engine.

And his brain.

Running away never actually stopped the flow of this thoughts, but it did seem to make processing them easier. In fact, he hadn’t been on the road for five minutes before he was almost laughing about the absurdity of what he’d just been through. He was a woman, he was drunk, he was in love with Cas? He grinned to himself. Where the hell did Sammy come up with this shit? How long had he been sitting on that kind of bomb-shell “knowledge”?

He felt his smile falter. Sam really was an idiot. The entire argument was stupid. First of all, to assume that he would have any kind of sexual feelings toward Cas at all. He wasn’t gay. He’d never been gay, he hadn’t ever planned on being gay--it wasn’t even in the damn book.

Except that a small voice in his head brought forth fleeting images of gay porn he had seen, had even chosen to watch. Lithe male bodies pressed against each other and caressed each other... Dean shrugged it away quickly. Finding porn intriguing or even attractive did not mean he’d find it attractive in real life. Dean wasn’t a psychologist, but he knew enough about sexuality to know that. Never mind the odd man now and then who warranted a second look--it wasn’t ever enough to make Dean question himself. Besides, all of this thought was completely pointless anyway. Even if Dean was attracted to Castiel, it wouldn’t make a bit of difference to the Angel. Cas was asexual, right? Cas didn’t think about or have sexual want, right?

And then the worst thing happened. The absolute worst thing. But Dean was halfway through the thought and he couldn’t stop himself.

He blamed gay porn.

Cas was naked. Cas was peeling off that trench-coat, completely naked underneath. His body was lean and taunt and sculpted, and he was lowering himself down onto his knees, eyes glistening up at Dean as he licked his lips, sliding them wet and hot over Dean’s--

“Shit--”

He was drifting into the other lane. Swerving to correct himself, he waved an apologetic hand towards the single oncoming car.

Cas was sliding his lips over Dean’s--

“NO. No. No no no no. No. Nope. No.” If he talked loudly enough, the image would go away.

But now they were in a shower. They were laughing together in the steam and the heat. Dean was standing behind Cas, bending him over gently, slowly. Dean tried shaking his head but all it achieved was a change in location, because now he was in a bed with Cas, kissing him, looking deep into those stupid blue eyes, fucking hold him close and kissing him, kissing him, kissing him--

Dean gripped his hands to the steering wheel. This wasn’t happening. He was not nursing a goddamn semi over a fucking fantasy of Cas. He wasn’t gay. He didn’t think about shit like this, he never had before.

“Fuck you, Sam. Fuck you Samuel Asshole Winchester.”

He shoved in a cassette tape blindly. He didn’t care what it was at this point. He turned it up, loud, and stared wide-eyed at the road ahead of him, forcing himself to think of nothing. And then, suddenly, a thought of comfort: dark eyes, dark hair, a captivating smile and a body to kill for... Lisa.

For two miles, he smiled and thought of Lisa. Because there could simply be no way he was gay, no way at all, when he had lived the life he’d lived with Lisa. He thought of her curves and her breasts, the way he’d longed for her each night... some nights... occasionally.

She was rarely a place of comfort to return to. Eventually, she failed to be one once again.

Because even though she was his truth for two miles, she wasn’t the answer. Nothing was the answer. Because Sam Dickhole Buttface Winchester had been right about one thing--that this wasn’t about gender, it was about love. And Dean was not, could not be, would not be, closed minded enough, even though he doth protest too much, to think for one second that love was bound to a sex.

But _gay_?

It took another mile of spinning wheels to process that the fantasies he had instantly crafted were only partly drawn from viewing Casa Erotica IV, Men on Men. Only partly drawn from some predicated and false notion of what ‘gay’ entailed. Because as he allowed himself to picture Cas’s head reeling back in pleasure, as he allowed himself the thought of touching Castiel’s hands and body and face, he realized that the greatest part of this fantasy lay within him. Because reflection borrowed into reflection, and he lay with Cas on a bed as a brother, and took his hand like a lover. Because he hated the Angel but couldn’t stand to lose him. Because the year without Sam and the year without Cas had ruined him in two completely different ways. Because Castiel was funny, albeit unintentionally. Because Castiel gave up Heaven for the Winchesters, and because seeing Cas’s rare smile was actually the greatest part of Dean’s day.

Was it possible this was love? How was it possible for it not to be? Castiel wasn’t a brother, he wasn’t a friend. He was the annoying, stomach-ache-causing desperate loneliness that had been bottling up within Dean for years. It wasn’t a question of whether or not Dean was gay--it was a question of whether or not he was in love. And thirty miles down the road he realized the answer was yes.

But it’s never really that simple. Even when he turned the car around to return to Sam, even when he hesitated and stopped at the grocery store to buy something to chew on (he settled on Funions) and a carton of bleach for appropriate pretense, Dean still couldn’t grapple down that lump in his throat. Because what was he supposed to do now? Call down Castiel and plant one on him? A happy coincidence of getting a boner from gay-fantasies is the realization that one is actually totally into the idea of fucking a dude. But this was Cas. Would Cas even go for it? Dean understood that Cas must love him, but what kind of love was that? He wasn’t human, and though that should have made things simpler, it just made them more complicated.

He got back in the car and thought meditatively about Castiel’s last words to him. _Do not ever again treat me like I mean more to you than I really do._

Dean couldn’t fathom what it meant. Was it possible that Castiel had become more human than even Dean was aware? Was Castiel bumming around Heaven at this very moment, preoccupied with his penis and wondering just why the thought of Dean intrigued it so?

Dean laughed. He had to laugh. Picturing Cas that way made no sense. It couldn’t make sense. But it did. And he fucking hated confusion. So he put the pedal down again.

There was no way that Cas would want to hear Dean pour his heart out to him. Cas didn’t think of Dean that way, and it would only make the Angel even more awkward to be around. He would simply have to apologize to Cas. He would have to call him down and apologize to him, and they would both have to move on. Because this wasn’t happening. It simply wasn’t going to happen. They were too different.

Dean noted with annoyance that he was returning into town in practically the same physical state he had left it in, because his heart was pounding again and his eyes were betraying him. How fitting was it that, when he had a life-changing revelation about his sexuality and his heart, he realized none of it had any point anyway. Cas was his friend. Cas would always be his friend. And now Dean just had to deal with the brutal awareness of his unrequited half.

So naturally then, the best thing to do would be to pretend that nothing had changed.

Dean returned to the hotel with a false grin plastered onto his face. He tossed a spare bag of chips at Sammy, noted the carpet staining, and said too loudly. “Had to go out and get the bleach! Where’d ya put the body?”

Sam looked at him. He hesitated, his eyes trying to read the situation, and he got the message loud and clear: Don’t. “I wrapped it and tossed it out the bathroom window.”

“Dude, Sam. That’s sloppy, even for you.”

Sam shrugged. “There’s woods out there. Let’s go haul it, burn it, and check out.”

“You do that. I’m gonna work on this carpet for a bit!” Dean could feel his cheeks burning with the effort of stretching a smile. But he didn’t leave Sam a chance to reply as he set to work, grunting into the effort as he scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed, feeling his fingers go numb and his legs burn. He couldn’t wipe his eyes with his hands wrapped in gloves. But the fumes of the bleach gave him a reason to tear up, and were Sam to look twice, he probably wouldn’t question it.

\------------------

Five weeks passed. In those five weeks, Dean grew separate from his new knowledge, grew together with it, and learned how to ignore it. But he never forgot it. In five weeks he’d had to find more reasons to escape from Sam, just to allow himself five seconds of fantasy--five moments, wherein he wasn’t ashamed of himself, to think about Cas. Usually that happened at night, as he and his brother lay in their beds, Dean waiting for the sounds of Sam’s gentle snoring to be at peace with himself. To think about Cas appearing suddenly in the room, moving to Dean, Dean grabbing at his hand, pulling him down, lying next to him and touching every part of him. The things he would whisper to him...

Cases were, altogether, a better distraction than the down time.

They’d worked ten in their short five weeks’ time. Ten, partly because Dean was searching frantically for new things to do, and partly because they were almost always in the right place at the right time. The increase of incidents along the 80 and 84 highways was becoming more than suspicious. They always started out with the appearance of being caused by a beast, but nine of their cases ended up being demon-oriented.

Sam looked across at Dean from their kitchenette table. “Do we even want to involve Crowley with this?”

“Ugh,” Dean shuddered as he took a swig of his beer. “No. Not unless we absolutely have to.”

The silence was pressing in on him, and Dean felt he had to fill it, because he knew the next suggestion and didn’t want to hear it. “Bobby have anything new to say this morning?”

Sam shook his head. “No. But he has been getting in more calls from other hunters. Something’s up.”

“Yeah...”

And there was nothing to go off of from that. Absolutely nothing. Dean saw that tell-tale look on Sam’s face, the pursing of the lips and the raising of the eye-brows. Dean knew he had to get out of this moment, because the next thing Sam would say would be _You know_ , followed by--

“You know...”

Crap. Dean forced a fake smile, and plastered an innocent, inquisitive look on his face. “No, what Sammy?”

“We really should talk to Castiel.”

And the two percent chance of hope he’d had that Sam wasn’t going to bring up Cas flitted away, along with his smile. He dropped his head halfway to his arms. “Look, Sam--”

“Dean--”

“I’m sure he has bigger things on his plate. He’s an Angel for crying out loud.”

“Dean, he should still hear about this. Chances are he’s got some information too.”

Dean stood, resigned. “Fine. Whatever. Call him all you want. I’m gonna go down to the courthouse library and see what I can dig up.”

He had turned away, so he couldn’t see Sam’s face, but he felt that he knew exactly what it would look like as Sam said, “It’s been five weeks, Dean. Aren’t you ready to talk to him yet?”

He wanted to answer. He wanted to say something quick and pithy. But he had nothing. So he simply walked out the door.

He wasted what must have been a good two hours at the courthouse. He had found some interesting micro-film about a similar demon pattern in this county in the late 1800s, but it really didn’t help much. It simply confirmed the rather ritualistic nature of what they were looking at.

By six o’clock in the evening, Dean assumed that Sam would have conducted his business with Castiel, and it was safe to return. There was a part of him, a very, very large part of him, kicking himself repeatedly for being such a coward. Because he really did want to see Cas. He really did want to check in with him, look at his face, see that all was forgiven in his eyes--that they could go back to being normal, or as close to normal as they would ever get now.

But this was better. This was easier. This was a bit of happiness, albeit a tortured one. So when Dean pulled up to the hotel room, fast food, sodas, and keys in hand, he didn’t expect to open the door and actually see him sitting at the table, talking to Sam.

“....Of course we’re not entirely--” Cas’s gravelly voice cut off as he turned and stood, staring at Dean in the door, whose key was still turned in the lock, eyes wide and staring.

“Hey, Dean,” Sam stood as well, moving to take the hamburgers and sodas from his brother, doing a very good job of pretending not to notice Dean and Cas still staring at one another. “Find anything useful at the courthouse?”

Dean blinked, brought back to reality as Sam took his bags. “Huh? Oh, yeah uh... The uh...” The key stuck in the door. Dean fumbled with it madly. “The micro film I saw--said--that--” He yanked it out, hard. “There’s been some kind of--the same kind of, I mean--attacks like this in the late 19th Century.”

“Ritual-like?” Sam’s mouth was already stuffed full of Bacon-Cheese-Please #3 burger. He tossed Dean’s to him, slurping at his drink with great satisfaction. “Patterns and stuff?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah.” Dean caught the burger, trying really hard to act natural and not stare at Cas, who had now seated himself and was watching Sam, his hands painted against the table in an absurdly unnatural manner, completely still. Every now and then, his eyes would peel to the side to take a small glance at Dean, who felt every bit of heat and rush at this momentary look. Cas was angry; Dean was unsettled. It seemed he was not forgiven, then.

“Cas was saying...” Sam swallowed loudly as Dean sat on the bed gingerly, watching his hands unwrap his burger with absolutely no control over their actions. He took a bite and listened to Sam, tasting nothing and unaware that he was chewing.

“Cas was saying,” Sam repeated after a moment, “That there definitely is something going on. It’s not Crowley. Apparently some kind of rare demon solstice something.”

Dean tutted gently. “When isn’t there?”

“Apparently, if enough blood sacrifice is made--”

“Wait, blood sacrifice?” Dean looked up from his burger, startled enough to be out of the moment. “Isn’t that pagan stuff, not demon stuff?”

Sam smiled, tilting his head. “Exactly. So are solstices. Good to see you’re keeping up.”

Dean rolled his eyes and shoved half the burger into this mouth, letting the cheese settle over his tongue and demanding himself to savor it. “So? Keep going.”

“Well, turns out this tradition isn’t exactly popular. But it does have to deal with removing the King of Hell.”

Castiel finally spoke. It seemed he could take Sam’s butchered retelling of his story no more. “It isn’t about popularity, it’s about knowledge. Much like the opening of the seals, an attempt is being made to create a pathway for the pagan gods to become more powerful. By inciting blood-sacrifices in their name, the newly excited Gods can create chaos here on Earth, and create a rise in the population of Hell.”

Dean stared at him, enraptured by his mouth and the story. “But what does any of that have to do with taking out Crowley?”

Cas’s head tilted. “Theoretically, when the pagan gods are thus incited, one will choose to rule over this newly expanded Hell.”

Dean furrowed his brows. “That makes no sense. Anyone with half a brain knows that Pagan Gods love ruling the Earth. That’s how they get their kicks.”

Cas nodded, almost smiling. “I concur. It is a ridiculously stupid plan. That is why,” he lifted his eyes to Dean’s, and Dean felt like his heart was going to burst because suddenly the smile grew wider. “That is why there is only a small contingent of demons trying to enact it.”

“See?” said Sam, slurping at his soda. “Unpopular!”

Dean grinned, positively grinned, chomping down another bit of burger. “Well, that’s good news then. If we tell Crowley, he’ll probably help. No one looks after Crowley’s ass more than Crowley.” As he said this, he covertly watched Cas, watched to see if he would smile again, watched to see if he could make Cas laugh. But Cas had lowered his eyes to his hands and was gazing softly at his nails.

“I would proceed with caution, Dean.” Cas said. “We do not need to summon or speak to Crowley needlessly.”

“Yeah, sure, but--”

“What we should do,” said Sam, “Is talk to Meg.”

“Meg.” Dean started, pulling a face and staring hard a Sam. “Meg? Why her?”

“Well, she is the leader of the anti-Crowley resistance, usually. We could get the inside scoop, talk her out of it.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “That’s an even stupider idea than a Pagan God Lucifer.”

Castiel suddenly rose. “I agree. I will report what we’ve discussed, and let you know what the angels can do on our end. Alas,” he added, head tilting. “With no real threat to Heaven, the angels will probably simply monitor the situation, not react to it.”

“Oh yeah,” said Dean. “It’s just the pointless massacring of it’s children, but no big.”

“There is always pointless massacre, Dean.” Cas raised his eyes, and they stared at each other for a moment. Then he looked away. “It does my heart well to know the both of you do what you can to stop it.”

Dean’s voice was throaty. “You too, Cas.”

Castiel’s eyes snapped back to Dean’s--he seemed stunned at the return compliment. They watched each other for a moment, Sam completely forgotten, when Cas, almost blushing, turned away. “I must go. Sam...Dean.”

Dean could feel the air charging with Castiel’s impending absence, and he couldn’t stand it anymore. “Cas, wait--just. Wait a second.”

And Cas did. He stood silently, patiently, while Dean shuffled his feet, shoved his hands in his pockets, then pulled them out to gesture at the air meaninglessly. After a moment, he pointed to the door. “Outside?”

Cas raised an eyebrow, then nodded, and walked out. Dean took a deep breath and made to follow when he heard Sam say from behind him, “Go get him, Dean.”

He whirled around, mouthing angrily at Sam, who was staring up at his brother with love in his eyes and a smirk on his face. Dean settled on breathing out, “I will kill you,” then he practically ran through the door.

The hotel they were staying at was a sprawler, ranch-style, with absurd little three step stairways leading to each door and flowerless shrubberies lining each walkway. Dean stepped out onto the shining, black pavement, wet from the sprinkler system, doubtless. The sun had completely faded, and now the only illumination was the glaring white of the parking lot lights and the red and purple of the hotel’s neon sign. Castiel was no where in sight.

“Cas?” Dean tried. He felt a small panic hitch in his voice as he called again, louder, “Cas?”

“I’m here, Dean.”

Dean’s head snapped down. Sitting awkwardly on the curb was Castiel, with his hands resting on his knees. He looked almost bird-like, roosting under his trench-coat and blinking up at Dean. He was so startlingly foreign sometimes, and Dean was completely taken aback.

“There you are.”

Cas smiled slightly, tilting his head. “As I’ve said.”

Dean had nothing to say to that. He watched as Cas, still with that cryptic smile, turned his head back out to the empty parking lot. Dean looked down a few rows to his baby, and found her mocking silence to be less than helpful. After a moment, he hitched his pants, and sat down next to Cas--not too next to Cas, but close enough to still feel completely uncomfortable. He steepled his hands at his mouth and popped a knee distractedly. The pressure to speak was unbearable, and yet, it had to be him to do it.

“So...”

“Yes.”

What the fuck kind of infuriating response was that? Dean rolled his eyes. “Nice night.”

Cas nodded his head from side to side, gently, then settled on, “It is rather unremarkable.”

Dean sighed, “I’m just trying to make conversation here, Cas.”

Cas’s soft smile faltered. “I see.” He hesitated. “Conversing with me like this must be difficult.”

Dean laughed darkly, “You have no idea.”

It was meant to be a joke, or at least to make Cas crack a smile, but Dean had momentarily forgotten that they were speaking under a temporarily formed bandaid, and was therefore surprised when Cas stood up. “I really must go.”

“What? No, we were just getting started!”

“Getting started on what, Dean.” Cas turned back to look down at him. “Contrary to how you must think me, I am actually very busy.”

Cas started to walk away. And if Dean had been in his right mind, he would have noticed that Cas never left that way--that walking away was completely out of character. But even if he had noticed, he would probably have walked into the bait, willingly. He stood up and called out, “I’m trying to fucking apologize here, Cas.”

Cas stopped and turned. “Apologize?”

“Yeah, Cas, apologize. Because I got this weird idea that you were pissed at me a few weeks ago for acting like an asshole. But if you’ve already moved on from that you just let me know. I’ve been working myself sick over it, but if you’re cool with it, that’s awesome, man. Great for you.”

“Dean--”

“Forget it, Cas.”

“Dean!--”

But Dean turned to walk down the empty line of parking spots. He made it two steps before he suddenly felt a rush of wings around him. He blinked and in one second Cas was there, so close to him, blue eyes wide and mouth open, searching. “You were going to apologize to me?”

Dean’s mouth gaped, his voice sounding small. “Yeah, I was going to.”

There was a moment of complete silence, when not even the distant humming buzz of the highway interrupted them, as Dean tried hard not to stare at Cas’s lips, tried hard not to sigh from disappointment when he seemed to pull away from him. Finally, Cas looked down. “I thought you had forgotten.”

“What, about our fight?”

When he didn’t say anything, Dean found himself ducking his head to win back Cas’s eyes. “Cas, I don’t--I don’t forget about... I’m not gonna forget about stuff like that. Jesus, how could you think I’d do that? To you?”

“Well, you--you hadn’t called...” Cas started, then seemed to blush and looked away, flustered with himself. “That is to say, I hadn’t heard anything... I thought it didn’t matter.”

And Dean felt his heart break, felt himself rip back in a time machine and fucking pulverize his past self for being such a dick sometimes. “Cas, of course you fucking--of course you fucking matter. You fucking matter to me, ok?”

After a long moment, Cas slowly pulled his eyes back up to Dean, and Dean could feel the unspoken question lingering in the air. How much?

And suddenly Dean knew it was now or never. Hold his peace or bite the bullet and say it. And he hated his life and wanted to vomit. He pictured himself just grabbing Castiel and shoving his tongue down his throat but that wouldn’t do because Cas needed to understand, and looking at him now was torture because his eyes were so open and so pleading and ernest; he deserved every bit of truth Dean had to give him. Dean could not have felt more unworthy of this moment, more unworthy of the creature in front of him... so he took his hands and pushed at Cas’s shoulders, meaning to be gentle but surprising the Angel so much he almost stumbled back.

“Personal space, Cas, Jesus. It’s like day one with you sometimes.”

“I--I’m sorry, Dean, I--”

“I mean, what the fuck, Cas. What do you want me to do, huh?”

Why the fuck was he picking a fight. Why the fuck was he doing this. Cas was staring at him confused and hurt and angry and Dean didn’t know how to make it better, once again. He never fucking knew. He felt something welling up in the back of his throat and wrung his hands, spreading them wide to the air and practically shouting, mist pouring from his mouth into the sky. “What do you want me to say, Cas?”

Cas’s jaw jutted forward. “Nothing, Dean.”

“Good, because you’re not gonna get it. You’re never gonna get it, because we’re not the same person, Cas. We don’t want the same things.”

“Dean, I don’t--” Cas shook his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Goddamn it, Cas. I hate you. I hate you so much sometimes.” Cas stared at him, and he plowed forward. “I am so sorry I hurt you, Cas. I hate you, and I’m sorry I hurt you, and I.... I’m trying to say.... goddamn it, Cas. I don’t know how to say this.”

And finally he seemed to have tapped Cas’s patience, because Cas didn’t look angry anymore. He didn’t look anything. He just listened, and waited. “Cas, you’re an Angel. And I get it.”

“Dean: get what?”

“What you were trying to tell me last time. You were... you were telling me I was getting too close to you. And you were right, Cas. I’m way, way too close to you. You’re an Angel, and I’m too close to you. You don’t work like this.”

Dean snapped his jaw shut, because saying anything more was too painful. He couldn’t speak else run the risk of his voice cracking and everything shutting down. And the silence was simply awful and Cas’s eyes were unbearable. So he turned and walked away, only to find Castiel already in his path.

“How dare you try to walk away from me, Dean Winchester.”

“...What?”

“How dare you assume to understand or comprehend what it’s like to be an Angel, and not just an Angel, but the Angel who’s given up everything for you? How dare you treat me like I am something less than human.”

“What? No, Cas, you’re not less than me, you’re--”

“What, more?”

Dean found himself nodding, mouth suddenly dry. “Infinitely.”

Castiel stared at him, hard. “I am what I am because of everything you gave me. Dean,” he sighed heavily. “You tell me that you’re too close to me?”

Dean’s breath hitched as he watched Castiel’s hands come up to grip his shoulders tightly. “I--Cas...”

“Because Dean, I don’t think you understand just how important you are to me.” He pulled his face close and whispered, “Do you know how old I am, Dean?”

Dean, heady from the heat of Castiel around him, breathed out, “No.”

“I am as old as the ocean, the fire, and the rocks that make this world. I have moved with the wind and existed as light itself and seen Man take it’s first steps.”

He paused, and Dean felt that he needed to fill it. “That’s pretty old.”

“Indeed. So, when I look at you, do you know what I see?”

And there was such tenderness in his voice, and his eyes were filled with such a light, that Dean, almost melting, felt himself smile, hearing the answer in the air around him. “What?”

“A child.”

“...Oh.”

“I see a flicker in time. A speck of sand on a shore. A footnote in existence. In spite of how important you have been to the Angels, you are tiny.”

Dean tried to move away, but Castiel only tightened his grip, shifting his hand down Dean’s left shoulder, spreading his fingers and staring at the spot transfixed. He pressed it gently, and Dean could almost remember the first time Castiel ever touched him, could feel the fresh burn of purity and light against his putrid and tired skin. “And when I came to grab you, Dean, I had no idea how much that little speck--” he lifted his eyes to Dean’s-- “How much this little speck would change me. Would grow into me. Would become a part of me.

“Dean: you are the most important creature on this earth. I exist for you. I breathe you. I worship you, even.” And Castiel’s face broke into the sweetest smile there, as he admitted to Dean’s feet, “I am a better man because of you, I...” He returned his gaze. “I _am_ a man.”

Any air in his lungs was completely gone. Dean stared at Cas, not inches from him, and found he could not breathe. He didn’t know what to say; he never did. But thankfully his body decided to take up the story for him.

His hands reached up, he cupped Castiel’s cheeks, and he pulled him in, feeling Castiel’s grip on his shoulders suddenly go lax as Dean pressed his lips against his. He felt Cas’s sudden surprise and gasp of air against his lips, and Dean thought he should let go and back away, because the Cas he knew didn’t think like this, the Cas he knew couldn’t possibly be feeling this rush in the same way the he was.

But the Cas he knew had just told him he was a man; and the Cas he knew was pulling back in, wrapping his arms around him, and kissing him back.

Not gay, gay, none of it fucking mattered anymore. Dean was kissing Cas and Cas was kissing him back, and nothing could stop the soft whimper in the back of his throat, the heat that rose as he turned his head against Cas and pulled him in deeper, opening his mouth and begging entrance with his tongue, sighing as it was allowed and dancing his tongue to taste, dart in and out, and he forgot how to breathe.

It wasn’t for a few moments that Dean realized they were no longer in the parking lot. But suddenly he became aware that Cas had transported them. Breaking away, he stopped and stared, gazing with wide-eyes at the suddenly present hotel-room, bed, and kitchen. Hotel-room. Bed. Bed. He looked back at Cas, whose shoulders were heaving, his eyes dark and unblinking.

“Cas... Cas, do you...”

And he didn’t need to finish. In a moment they were back together again, mouths open, hungry for more.


	6. Lover of the Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An education, a bit of mischief, a whole lot of lovin’, and duty calls.

It was a mad fumble of hands as Dean pushed Cas back onto the bed. There was an absurd awareness in his head that these events were actually happening; that the maddeningly warm creature beneath him, pressing wet lips and tongue against his own, was Castiel. Dean's heart was pounding, and he widened his mouth desperately, trying hard to swim in everything Cas was and had to offer, moaning heavily against the dark air that moved around him.

Castiel was panting; Dean was panting. They had to stop to breathe, and for three moments their foreheads pressed together, Dean’s legs and arms quivering as he held himself over Cas. If either one of them had wanted, they could have stopped it there. But Dean’s fingers were carving the details of Cas’s cheekbones, and Cas ran his hands up the length of Dean’s chest, thrusting up and making contact with his unpracticed hips, a vividly uncontrolled want crawling in the back of his throat. Dean grunted, snapping his eyes open to find Cas already staring up, eyes wide.

In a second they were back together, kissing now with more clarity. Dean could feel Cas’s lips move and turn with a greater assurance against him, and Dean’s mind was buzzing as he released his legs from the employ of holding himself up. He laid himself gently across Cas, straddling one leg and inhaling sharply when their hips connected.

“Cas...?” He pulled away to speak, running his lips down the length of Castiel’s chin, fascinated and intrigued by the feel of the stubble he could peck and lick there. He spoke again, his mouth pressed against the pulse in Cas’s neck. “... _Cas_...”

He tongued down his throat, and kissed the gentle bob there as Cas swallowed heavily. A soft breath escaped by Dean’s ear, whispered with heat, “Dean?”

“Is this your first...” And Dean meant to say kiss. He meant to add onto that thought, but his brain was barely working because, as he moved up to nibble gently at the lobe of Cas’s ear, the angel gasped loudly, gripping Dean’s elbows tightly and once again thrusting his pelvis up to grind against Dean. He grunted into Cas’s shoulder, fighting the urge to rut shamelessly against him, fighting the urge to shuck every last piece of clothing and go completely mad. He felt half mad already. He had almost forgotten the question when he heard a softly spoken answer.

“...It will be. Yes.”

Dean’s eyes opened, and he took a moment to process this as he slowly leaned up and braced himself on his elbows. He took a hand and brushed the hair back from the ridge of Cas’s forehead, looking down at those blue eyes that were staring up at him half in want, half in fear.

“That’s ok.”

Castiel didn’t look reassured, and Dean looked at him more fervently, kissing his cheek tenderly before saying. “We don’t have to do anything, Cas. Fuck, I’m just happy kissing you.” And he was. He so was. Yes, naturally he also wanted to fuck Cas’s brains out and vice versa, but right now Cas’s lips were so tempting and sweet, and shit--he leaned down and pressed them open, hearing himself moan heavily as Cas’ tongue flicked shyly against his. This was bliss. This was fucking perfect bliss, and he groaned unhappily as Cas pulled away.

They looked at each other again, and for a moment Dean thought Cas was done, because the Angel’s eyes hardened with resolve. But when he spoke, his voice was barely more than a whisper. “Take your shirt off, Dean.”

Dean felt himself smile, felt a rush of blood to everywhere but his brain, and found his physical control of moments before suddenly lax as his fingers fumbled on the edges of his shirt. He noticed Castiel watching, staring at him with his lips parted slightly, breathing deep. “Cas, you too.”

The angel looked down, seemingly shocked to see that he was wearing clothes. In a few moments it had become a race. Each panting, their hands pulling stupidly at their own and then each other’s shirts, they were suddenly bare skin against each other, and fuck if that didn’t make everything so much more.

They hastily clamored to each other; it was completely disorganized and fantastic. Dean was intoxicated with the sound of skin against skin, and he threw himself back on top of Cas, grabbing and touching everything he could, finding himself shoved onto his side then pulled back to the top again. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to kiss Cas’s lips or his burning skin more, and was finding his tongue torn between the two, moaning when Cas would find his ear or lean down to bite at his nipple. First time or not, Cas had fucking amazing instinct with his tongue.

Cas was on top now, laying between Dean’s spread legs and arching himself over Dean’s collarbone. Dean let his hands slide down Cas’s back to grab at him. He had always considered himself an ass man, and fuck if clasping to Cas wasn’t goddamn amazing. He squeezed and pulled in, pressing their hips together. He could feel Cas’s erection, straining against the fabric of his pants, and he popped his hips up to grind Cas’s cock against his own. Even while clothed that shit was hotter than he had ever imagined it would be.

Cas gasped, arching back, completely distracted from what he had been doing. He froze and they paused, and then Dean slowly and surely rotated his hips forward and back, holding fast to Cas’s ass and staring up at him, watching the Angel’s eyes close and open in curiosity and experience. Dean gritted his jaw, fucking anxious as shit to get out of his jeans, needing more than anything to pop that top button. But he was waiting for Cas. Waiting to see if this was all too much, all too far for him. After a moment, he felt Cas shift, trying his own experimental movement, allowing his own hips to reciprocate against Dean’s motion.

“Oh, fuck...” Dean bit his lip and thrust up harder again him. “Cas--”

It was as though he heard the unspoken request, because in a moment Cas had pried a hand between them and shakily began to work on Dean’s button. It wasn’t budging, so Dean sat up to help him, hands absurdly topsy turvy until it popped. Dean grunted with the release of pressure, watching avidly as Cas’s hands slowly pulled down the zipper.

Any fear Dean still held, that perhaps Cas didn’t want this as much as he did, was put to rest when he saw the look on Castiel’s face as he looked down. His mouth was hanging open just slightly, and his eyes were hungrily taking in the bulge that emerged from Dean’s jeans. If it was possible, Dean was even more turned on. Fuck if he wasn’t going to show Cas why it was so fucking amazing to be human.

Whatever Cas had been planning, he was caught off guard as Dean grabbed him, practically picked him up, and then tossed him on his back in the bed. “Dean, what--”

But he was already at Cas’s pants, already pulling them down, yanking them over his feet and the absurd little black socks he wore. He’d have to take those socks off too, because fuck he wanted to watch Cas’s toes curl.

Whitey-tighties, as he had expected. Pristine, almost like they had been ironed, and pitching a tent under Cas’s heaving belly. Dean pulled himself back up to Cas, focusing on his eyes as he raised himself over him, parting his lips greedily with a kiss, pulling Cas’s tongue into his mouth and then retreating, down the neck, across a shoulder, and back up for a quick kiss. He pulled away just as his fingers reached down and gently pressed against Cas’s still clothed cock.

The angel moaned low in the back of his throat, arching his lower back up as Dean kissed him again, rubbing his hand tenderly and patiently up and down, listening to the soft whimper building in Cas’s voice. Trailing his tongue down, down, and down, Dean nipped at the line of Cas’s underwear, pausing in his task to look back up at him.

Cas propped himself up on one elbow, staring at Dean with fascination, chest heaving in shallow breaths. Dean needed him to give the ok. He waited, and after a moment, Cas nodded.

Dean didn’t bother with coy biting and mouthing away at the underwear. He employed his hands, smiling as Cas raised his hips to aide, and pulled them off, hooking them over Cas’s lifted ankles and staring down at him. Completely naked before him, Dean was again grappling with that knowledge that no one had ever touched Cas. No one. He was so fucking amazed to be the first. He bent over, licked his lips, and parted them slowly over Cas’s cock, which seemed to blossom almost instantly under his tongue.

“Oh...Oh Go-od...” And if that wasn’t encouragement enough, Dean didn’t know what was.

Sucking in, he lowered himself up and down, pulling in a hand at the base of Cas’ dick and sliding it in time. Dean had never given a blow job before in his life, but he was so focused on getting it right. The friction was too much; he pulled away to wet his mouth more, then returned to lick Cas’s length fervently up and down, kissing the top and staring up at the Angel, whose eyes were lidding over and his lips were working in silent ways, opening and shutting and huffing. The sound of Dean’s mouth was fucking obscene and Dean loved it, finding himself even more aroused than he was before as he moaned softly over his work.

“De--Dean...”

Dean popped his head up, keeping his hand working. He smiled at Cas. “What’s up, babe?”

Cas almost growled at him as he shifted under Dean’s ministrations, hands pulling the sheets into small fists. Holy fuck this was hot. Cas was so fucking hot, and there went his toes, curling up, legs almost kicking...

Oh.

Dean stopped, pulling his hand away. “Woah there.”

“Uh...!” Cas’s eyes popped open. “What... why?” He stared at Dean, chest heaving.

“Not yet, Cas.” And Dean leaned over him, kissing him, feeling Cas grasp at him wildly, almost laughing at the fervor with which Castiel sucked at his tongue.

“Dean,” he growled, “Do not stop.”

And Cas reached his hand down as if to finish what Dean had started, but Dean stopped him, grabbing his wrists and pulling them up over his head. “Not yet,” he repeated, voice warm. He waited for a moment as Cas stopped moving, then pulled back, reaching down to rip away his own jeans and his boxers, finally. He stared at Cas’s shining, hard cock, arching gracefully towards his stomach, and he couldn’t help it. He stroked himself, pulling with his still slick hand once, then twice, grunting.

Castiel seemed to think this was a hint. He sat up, reaching for Dean, but Dean stopped him once again by kissing him tenderly and lowering him back down. Slowly, he wrapped a hand around Castiel’s far hip, tugging him around and forward. Lifting Cas’s legs, he bent them at the knees and crouched between them, returning his mouth to where Cas so desperately needed it. He was greeted with a deep moan, feeling Cas shove his hips up just slightly. But the attention there was not to last.

He slid down, kissing his way, until he stopped.

“Oh. Crap.”

Cas sat up suddenly, hand reaching down instinctively to cover himself. “What?”

Dean sighed, and batted away Cas’s hand gently. “I’m an idiot.”

“What’s wrong, Dean?”

Dean grunted. His fucking genius plan, spoiled. He felt anger and disappointment building irrationally inside of him. “Lube.”

Cas blinked at him, tilting his head. “I don’t understand what that means.”

“It means,” Dean leaned up, noticing with great disappointment that Castiel’s cock had withered slightly. Not to mention his own. “It means, Cas...”

What, exactly? That he doesn’t get to fuck him tonight? Well then, what was it that he was doing, exactly?

“I just... I wanted you to experience, you know, everything.”

“Everything,” Cas repeated, clearly trying to understand.

“Well,” Dean found himself laughing at how it was suddenly awkward to explain this. “There’s a part to us having sex that we haven’t gotten to yet, and I was kinda looking forward to it, actually.”

“Oh!” Cas stared at him. “You refer to anal penetration.”

Dean felt himself blush. “Something like that, yes.”

“Dean, I am virginal, not a fool.”

“Thanks for reminding me.” Dean sat up, trying to change his mental course to better satisfaction, when suddenly, Cas vanished.

“What the-- _Cas_??”

Startled, Dean looked around the room to no avail. After a few moments of panic, Cas re-materialized at the side of the bed, still wearing nothing except a satisfied look on his face. “Will this suffice?” He held out his hand; Dean stared, aghast, at the bottle Cas was holding.

“... _Astroglide_?”

“It is lubricant, is it not?” Cas glanced down at it, brow furrowing slightly. “I’m afraid I picked it based on the name. It sounded intriguing.”

“So you just... you just went to a store... and got lube... naked.” And still aroused, Dean added silently. When Cas said nothing and just continued to smile, Dean continued, “Did... did you pay for it?”

“With what money?”

Dean had twenty-five separate moments wherein he pictured the news tonight, the security cameras being ravaged everywhere as a naked Castiel simply appeared in an isle, grabbed lubricant, and then flickered away. Mouth agape, Dean blinked at Cas and then quite suddenly burst into wild, maniacal laughter. “Oh my God, Cas!”

Cas’s mouth twitched, and his eyes crinkled fondly. “Yes, Dean?”

Wiping tears of mirth from his eyes, Dean unfolded himself and reached out, taking one of Castiel’s long-fingered hands into his own. “You’re just... you’re so...”

He didn’t really have any other words. Then again, he had the words, but he didn’t say them. They were blooming warm in his chest, and his cheeks hurt from smiling, and he was so incredibly happy that the feeling felt completely foreign to him. “This is a dream, Cas. Has to be.”

Cas, looking down at Dean, took a step forward and kneeled on the bed. “But Dean, it isn’t.”

Dean felt Cas’s hands cup around his face, and he closed his eyes as his upturned lips were met. Heat surging again, he tugged urgently at Cas, turning him and laying him on his back, propped up against the pillows. He pulled away, still laughing, whispering, “I cannot believe you just stole lube from a store.”

“If it bothers you, we can go pay them tomorrow.”

Dean couldn’t help the enormous grin on his face at the thought of tomorrow. “That’s probably not a good idea, Cas.”

“Ah well. Let us consider my task a perk of mating with a supernatural, Dean.”

Dean smiled and leaned in for another kiss when Castiel’s voice stopped him. “I confess I was greatly curious as to the experience of anal sex.”

“Well--” Dead said, but stopped when he saw what Castiel was doing. Cas, opening the bottle, squeezed the lube onto his palm and fingers, and wasted no time in moving his hand down his body and gliding a finger into himself. Dean’s jaw dropped, like he should say something, like he should protest--but there was absolutely nothing to protest or say. He just stared as Cas, with a contemplative look on his face, rocked his finger slowly back and forth. After a moment, he spoke. “Interesting. I’m not certain I see where the pleasure is in this.”

Dean’s voice was gruff and heavy. “That’s because you’re missing it.”

Cas tilted his head and looked as though he were going to ask for clarification, but Dean stopped him as he removed Cas’s hand and slicked his middle finger with his mouth. Lowering it to Cas’s entrance, he put his other hand to Cas’s shoulder. “Breathe.”

As Cas did, he slid into him, listening to the Angel as he pressed in and in, and then, just ever so slightly, up. With a gentle rub, he felt Castiel clench around him, heard him inhale, and knew that he had nailed the spot. He watched as Cas’s eyes widened, and  he smiled as he licked his wet lips down Cas’s regrowing shaft once again, lubricating and sliding in a second finger, as he slowly worked both.

The sounds issuing from the back of Cas’s throat were almost alien. He couldn’t seem to land on breathing or grunting or moaning. He widened his legs for Dean, hitching himself lower down, rolling his hips underneath Dean helplessly. Dean pulled back, watching a saliva strand absently as he slid in one more finger.

Cas’s jaw dropped, and Dean watched his eyes, his lips, his quivering chest. After a few more strokes, Dean pulled away, ignoring Cas’s moans of upset. He grabbed clumsily at the lubricant bottle and squeezed it into his hand, applying it liberally to Cas again and to himself. Stroking his own cock with blatant pleasure, he stared at Cas and found it impossible to wait any longer.

He hesitated only one moment as he contemplated their positions, then he gently turned Cas on his side and lay behind him. Cas’s neck craned around as the two of them watched each other. He lifted an arm, arching it around to the back of Dean’s head, burying his fingers in Dean’s hair as Dean caught his elbow in his left hand. Balanced, Castiel slowly lifted his leg, and Dean grunted without even making contact, because Cas getting himself ready was so hot, and Castiel staring at him like that was so fucking hot.

He hovered at Cas’ entrance, maneuvering himself, thrusting for a moment between the firmness of Cas’ cheeks and dropping his jaw in an indecent _uh_ sound. He and Cas never stopped looking at one another, never lost contact. He positioned himself with his free hand, then slowly slid in.

Cas’s mouth swung open and his eyes screwed up in something akin to pain, except that the sound he made was anything but. Dean bit his own lip, bit down hard, but finally had to close his eyes because _sweet fucking Jesus_. If he had thought Cas was warm on the outside he was a fucking fire on the inside, hot and slick and completely ready, the tightness gripping Dean into insanity. After all this foreplay, all this fantasy, Dean thought it couldn’t really be helped that he lost his mind a bit.

“Oh, fuck, Cas--fuck--” He was trying to move slowly, trying to thrust calm and measured, but he slapped against Cas’s back with wild abandon and pulled him close, speaking nonsense and expletives with no control over his mouth. He braced each thrust with a foot as he wrapped his arm around and up Cas’s chest, biting his shoulder as he spiraled out of control. The sounds Castiel made were fucking inhuman. It was deep and gruff and wild, high and low, swimming around Dean’s head as he shoved himself deeper and deeper. Holy shit to fuck like this, to be fucked like this--he was halfway towards coming when he knew that this was exactly what he wanted.

He opened his eyes again to find Cas staring at him. It was almost a strain to catch his lips but it was worth it. He pulled away but kept looking, alternating between watching Cas’s open mouth and his eyes, which were unblinking, dark, and intense.

Dean could feel it building. “Oh fuck, Cas--you’re so fucking tight--”

“...Dean...” There was the voice he knew, the angel deep and gruff but out of breath and completely consumed. “Dean, please....”

They met open mouthed, tongues deep but not deep enough, bodies slamming together mercilessly as Dean suddenly felt the peaks begin to crash, muscles in his abdomen taking over. “Come, Cas--” he grunted, “I want you to come...”

He freed his hand from Cas’s elbow and reached down, pulling clumsily at him, sliding his hand up and down Cas’s cock in a vague attempt at rhythm, shutting his eyes as white-hot began to take over his vision. “Cas, come. Come on, baby, fucking com--”

Castiel shouted and threw his head back, both hands twisting at the sheets. His shout turned into a cry, as Dean felt him spill out and up, covering his stomach and the bed. “Fuck, yes, Cas--Cas co--”

The sound of his order vanished into silence as Cas’ walls convulsed around him. Dean seized and then he was gone, in spite of every attempt not to. His voice was guttural and straining in his neck, saying Cas’s name in half-spoken syllables, every fucking star in the sky in his eyes. He felt himself pour into Cas, and he bit down hard on the Angel’s shoulder, shuddering into every last thrust.

He slowly came to rest. Every pant was labored, and every breath was accompanied by sound, helpless sound. When Dean finally pulled out, they melded into each other. Dean snaked both arms around Cas and tugged him closer, nuzzling his nose into the hair at the nape of Cas’s neck, breathing him in and kissing the skin he found there. He was torn between wanting to look into Cas’s eyes and never wanting to move ever again from this spot. This spot was perfect.

\-----------------

It was some time later that Dean realized he had fallen asleep. He opened his eyes slowly and lazily, taking a deep breath and wondering why he felt so warm. The room was dark but for the small bit of light peeking in around the curtain and the dull glow of red from the bedside clock.  It took a few small moments of cognizance to remember where he was, what had happened.

Cas. His Angel: Castiel. Sex. The two of them.

Dean allowed his eyes to settle on Cas’s form, still encompassed in his arms. Somehow, he had turned himself around in the few passing hours. He was now facing Dean with eyes open and staring, his head propped up slightly by one hand. Dean, still waking up and blushing as he remembered everything that had happened between them, blinked up sleepily at Cas and smiled softly.

“Hey...”

Cas tilted his head, smiling back. “Hello, Dean.”

Dean felt a pleasant rush of heat up and down his spine as this familiar phrase was purred out. He wriggled the fingers of his right hand and noticed that his arm was completely numb under Cas’s body. He tugged at it gently, sighing with relief when Cas gave it up. Folding his arm onto his chest, he looked back across to Cas. “I forgot you don’t sleep.”

Cas said nothing, he simply smiled back at Dean, eyes darting the distances of Dean’s face.

“What are you looking at?”

“You.” The forwardness of this answer took Dean quite aback. He felt himself flush in the dark, a problem which only became more flustering as Cas reached a hand out and slowly dragged it up Dean’s bare arm and shoulder. “You have a lot of these,” Cas said after a moment, “Don’t you?”

Dean stared at him. “What?”

“Freckles.”

Dean fidgeted, completely uncomfortable under this kind of scrutiny. “Not exactly news, Cas.”

“No, but seeing them here,” he pointed lazily with his finger, “And here...” dragging it up and across his chest to the apex of his collarbone, “...and here,” he pointed to a dark spot on Dean’s hip. “That I find quite surprising.”

Dean felt a surge of arousal that was really quite absurd considering the athletics he had just spent on Cas. He was speechless. Watching Cas process this, their aftermath, was fascinating. There was a dark wonderment in his eyes that Dean felt he had not seen from Cas in a long, long time; something more akin to how he looked in their first meeting. Only he was softer now, wiser now, a kinder being than Dean ever thought he would be, and certainly kinder than Dean ever thought himself. He smiled warmly at Cas, torn between wanting to listen to him talk or shut him up again for another ten, twenty, thirty minutes, at least.

“You know, it is an old lore that freckles,” Cas paused there, looking shyly up from beneath his lashes and withdrawing his hand to rest between them, “...That freckles are kisses from angels.”

Dean smiled until he laughed, “Is that right?”

Cas was staring avidly at the sheets, “So they say. Not that many angels kiss of course. In fact, none of us do.”

“You do.”

He dared Cas to meet his eyes, which eventually he did. Reaching out and tugging him in, Dean pressed their lips together tenderly, teasing him gently with his mouth and pulling away to whisper, “I outta be covered in them now.”

Cas was breathless as he whispered back, “Then I shall have to recount.”

Dean stared at him, eyes mere inches away from his, finding himself totally repulsed by such romanticism and yet, at the same time, completely and truly wooed. He didn’t deserve this kind of love, this kind of innocence; he didn’t deserve Cas. At a loss for words, he simply kissed him again because God, he _could_. After a moment, he pulled away, cupping Cas’s face gently in his hands. “We should probably shower.”

Cas looked at him. “Why?”

And as he reached a hand over to Dean’s shoulder, Dean had the uncomfortable sensation of being suddenly scrubbed, wiped clean, and blow-dried in less that one half second. He pulled a face, decidedly un-turned on and almost instantly grumpy. “Cas, what the hell.”

Cas shrugged, sitting up onto his knees. “Another perk of being with a Supernatural?”

“Not exactly a perk, Cas.” Dean followed him, sitting up and stretching his legs out in the sheets. “You really need to ask me before you do stuff like that.”

Cas blinked at him, the idea clearly never having crossed his mind. “But a shower seems so tedious. A waste of your precious, small time.”

Dean sighed, hanging his head for a moment before reaching a hand out to Cas, trailing his fingers gently down the hair on his exposed thigh and letting it come to rest on Cas’s knee. “Cas, you’ve got so much...” he paused, feeling somehow small against the mountain of humanity Cas still needed to attain.

“Yes?”

“... Showers are awesome, Cas. They’re freaking awesome. They’re hot and steamy and sometimes the best part of a damn day.” Dean felt himself start to smile. “I could show you.”

Cas looked down at him. “I don’t see why you would need to show me how to--oh.” He smiled slowly. “I see. Suggestive innuendo.”

“Something like that, yes.” Dean pulled himself onto his knees, leaning up to Cas and planting his lips against Cas’s cheeks, chin, and mouth. “Would you be interested?”

Cas hesitated, his hands coming up to hold onto Dean’s elbows, pulling Dean’s arms around him. “In the shower lessons or the innuendo?”

Dean stopped, unsure whether to laugh or succumb to exasperation, as Cas continued, “I am interested greatly in both, Dean.”

Leaning back, Dean looked into Cas’s eyes. He was about to say something coy, something sly and sexy, when Cas cut him off.

“Because I have learned so much already. I’ve learned, for example, the intricate pleasures that can be provided simply by the human tongue. And repetitive insertion against a bodily gland can be--”

“Cas.”

“Yes?”

“Shut up.”

At first Cas looked mildly affronted. But when he caught the glance in Dean’s eye he sank back down into Dean’s arms, allowing himself to be soundly kissed and wrapped up. Dean was coercing him off the bed, teasing him gently with his mouth and hands and fingers, tugging his body to stand against his own. Dean was heavily aware now, as their still naked bodies came together, at how neatly Cas fit into the nook of his arms, and how pleasant it was to tilt his down down just ever so slightly and suck Castiel’s lips into his own, and how--

“Dean.”

Dean stopped, grunting unhappily as he rolled his eyes. “Cas, seriously. Wax poetic about humanity after we have hot shower-sex, ok?”

“No, Dean--”

And Dean finally saw the look in Cas’s eyes. “What’s wrong?”

Cas sighed heavily, pulling completely away from Dean. “I have to go.” He spun around in spot, mildly flummoxed, then sprang towards his pants as he discovered them on the floor.

Dean watched, suddenly acutely aware that he was naked, semi-aroused, and standing completely exposed to the cold in the room. He blinked heavily against the light from the wall-lamp that Castiel suddenly flicked on, shielding his eyes. “Cas?” 

Castiel was halfway through buttoning his shirt back up and was searching about the room for his tie. Dean looked at his feet and found it there amongst his toes. Stooping to pick it up, he tried again. “Cas.”

Castiel stopped, nodding at him. “Yes?”

Dean pursed his lips, holding up the tie as he turned and sat upon the bed. “What’s the rush?”

“Oh!” Castiel, completely flushed, practically ran to Dean’s side, grabbing at the tie with trembling fingers. Dean watched him for a few moments, taking in the mis-buttoned shirt and inside-out coat. Eventually pity made him stand to help. Cas smiled at him, shakily. “I’ve never had to get dressed in a hurry before.”

Dean didn’t say anything. He knotted the tie and looked down at Cas, waiting for his previous question to be answered, which eventually Cas did. “I’m being summoned.” When Dean said nothing and continued to look at him, Cas elaborated. “By angels. I must go.”

“It can’t wait?”

“No, I’m afraid not.”

Dean felt himself nod as he sat down once again. Cas, stumbling into his socks, collapsed to the ground to tie his shoes. It became apparent after a few moments that Castiel had absolutely no idea how to do that task.

“Jesus, Cas.” Gruffly, Dean climbed down from the bed and tugged Cas’s foot towards him. “Seriously? How do you not know how to do this?”

Cas shrugged, watching him. “I never had to before.”

“You can’t just--Angel-them tied?”

“Our abilities to manipulate relate to only natural and spirit--”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever...”

Cas studied Dean’s movements, then slowly began to mirror them on the remaining shoe. After a moment, he stood, reaching down a hand to aide Dean, who took it reluctantly. Sighing, he skulked around to the end of the bed and danced into his jeans, plucking his shirt from where it lay strewn across the television.

“Dean...”

Peering under the TV cabinet, Dean found one sock and shuffled it on. “Yeah?”

“Dean, what is it?”

“It’s nothing, Cas.”

“Dean, you are clearly unhappy.”

Dean sat at the end of the bed, fishing out other sock from betwixt the comforter's folds and tugging it roughly over his bare foot. He muttered, almost to himself, “Yeah, well, what’s new?”

He turned around to look at Cas, to shrug off his comment, but immediately regretted doing so. Cas’s eyes were wide, unblinking, confused, and clearly hurt. When he spoke, his voice was no more than a whisper. “Dean, what did I do?”

Dean stared at him, guilt pouring itself heavily over his chest and he stood quickly, moving to Cas and taking his hands. “Cas, it’s fine. I’m sorry, ok? I just...” He fished for words and Cas looked up at him so expectantly. “I just... I just wanted you to stay, that’s all.”

“Oh.” Cas’s shoulders heaved with heavy relief. “I would like that too.”

“Ok then, so do it! Screw those angels--you want to stay, so stay.”

Cas blinked nervously, licking his lips. “You don’t understand, Dean. I am not my own keeper. As it is, I’m already displeasing them waiting just this long.”

Dean shook his head. “I thought things were different up there. I thought we’d changed things, not just for us, but for you.”

“We did change things,” Cas sighed. “But I’m still a servant of Heaven. And I’m more important to it now than I ever was before.”

Dean sighed, clicking his jaw and fighting down the annoyance that was building inside him. “Ok, fine. I’ll see you sometime tomorrow, then?”

When Cas hesitated to answer, Dean sat down on the bed. “Not tomorrow?”

“It is... unlikely.” Cas emphasized his last word, looking so sharply at Dean that he understood: _unlikely_ meant that Cas was probably going to be gone for awhile.

Of course. Naturally he would be. Because the world had somehow known that Dean Winchester was sitting on potential happiness, had even supped with it, and was decidedly unpleased with this turn out. Because this thing with Cas was just beginning, and undefined, and it needed tomorrow. Dean needed tomorrow more than he could express in rational words. He shook his head and muttered to the floor. “A perk of being with a Supernatural...”

If Cas heard, he said nothing. But he hadn’t left. He stood at Dean’s feet, waiting and staring. Dean looked up at him. “Go, Cas.”

With a flutter of wings he disappeared, without so much as a goodbye. Which was, if Dean were being honest, about per usual for Cas. Except that things weren’t per usual with them anymore; things were currently residing squarely in the unusual, and now Dean was left to contemplate them alone in the dark.

His annoyance was spreading, and a few moments later, Dean found and tied his own stupid shoes. He put on his own stupid coat the right way, and when he found Castiel’s stupid underwear, he folded it with great irony then shoved it moodily into a pocket. And what now?

It suddenly occurred to him that Castiel had not only left him, he had left him in an unknown place and location, without any way of contacting anyone.

“Cas, you son of a bitch...” Clenching his jaw, he walked out the door of the hotel room.

...And he was face to face with the Impala.

For a moment he stood there, dazed, impressed that Cas had actually gone to so much trouble for him, until it dawned on him: Cas hadn’t transported them far away--he’d merely moved them inside the same hotel he and Sam were already staying at, three doors over. Three doors over from their room, where his brother now slept soundly and Dean was certain not to sleep at all.


	7. Seagull

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Fly to your tomorrow, leave me to my sorrow.”

The sun was still irritatingly bright, even though it was about an hour from setting. Leaning against the Impala, Dean shielded his eyes as he looked across the stretch of parking lot between where he and Sam stood, checking into the hotel room. ID and card of choice today belonging to one ‘Jerry Russellbelt’--Dean made a mental note to check the number of uses on those cards--they probably only had one more good pull from that fake-identity, and in a far away state, before they’d have to chuck it.

Dean was in a good mood today. The prospect of action and the long drive had cheered him tremendously. He hoped his mood would last.

Sam turned and shot Dean a thumbs up, pointing to a room wedged in the corner. Walking in that direction, Dean slung his bag over this shoulder, meeting Sam at the door.

“Everything go ok?”

“Huh?” Sam was distracted, fiddling with the cards in his wallet. “Oh, yeah.” He turned the key in the lock.

In the past, they had stayed in some really, really sorry hotel rooms. But Dean had learned that sometimes a trashy outside didn’t always predict the inside. Their last room, however, had flagrantly ignored that idiom. There had been cockroaches in the sink and even one swimming in their toilet. Thus, it was with great relief that they opened the door to something clean.

Not that Dean would have cared, or at least, outwardly cared. A bed was a bed; but fuck if it wasn’t nice to sit on one and not have dust fly up around him. Dean cast one quick glance to the bedside cabinet and sighed, heavily. Sam looked up. “What?”

Dean pointed. “No Magic Fingers. That’s three places in a row, Sammy.”

“Dean. They don’t have signs that advertise Dean Winchester’s Weird Perversions Served Here.”

Dean paused. “They really should.”

Rolling his eyes, Sam emptied his bag on his bed by the door, and walked back to the bathroom. “That list would be a mile long, Dean.”

“It would be worth it.”

Sam didn’t respond as he closed the door. Sighing, Dean leaned back against the pillows, deeply inhaling the smell of clean hotel that surrounded him. For a moment, the only sound was the ticking of the air conditioner. But as it shut down, Dean’s mind began to fall back into its habit--into what it had been doing for a month when he was alone. Silence was the curse, and abruptly Dean got up and searched for the TV remote. Discovering it at the end of Sam’s bed, he flicked on the tube.

After a loud click and buzz, the TV filtered into light; the news was on. Some hot chick and a dude with a wanna-be pompadour were relating facts about a baby elephant at the zoo. It was a charming enough distraction, at least for a little while.

Five minutes.

Dean could hear his mind start to speak again; he turned up the television’s volume. A story about sailing the interior coast. What the fuck, was there nothing to report in this town? Dean knew for a fact there was. Dean knew that seven people had disappeared in this town the past month. How the fuck was a goddamn dingy more important than missing persons?

He changed the channel and rubbed at his chest absently, pressing down against the rising abscess he felt there, before he changed the channel back.

“Sam, you coming out of there anytime soon? Today, maybe?”

The door opened a crack. “Dean, what the hell. I have to go to the bathroom.”

“Shit or get off the pot, man.”

Sam grumbled something and slammed the door shut.

Dean tapped his foot. The room felt hot. He got up, adjusted the temperature, then sat back down. A robbery at a twenty-first street bank. He got up again, walked to the sink, and filled up a glass of water.

His heart hurt.

Fuck.

He slammed the drink down. “Sammy, what was the name of that third missing person again?”

There was a pause. Sam hated talking through the bathroom door, which is probably why Dean made him do it all the time. Sam sighed, “Thomas Neely.”

“‘M gonna look up that address again.”

“Dean, it’s written down in the--”

“Yeah, I know.” Of course he knew. He glanced at their notebook amongst Sam’s scattered belongings. He remembered the numbers of the house, 8321, and he knew that the street was some kind of tree, Sycamore or Willow, Lane. But drumming up the laptop, listening to its whirr, settling his eyes on the bright screen, would be something to do.

Dean glared at the empty refrigerator; a beer would be nice. They needed to start making it a tradition to just buy beer the moment they got into a town. Dean’s eyes flicked to his own bag, where he had a flask tucked away. But he didn’t want heavy liquor right now. He didn’t want anything right now. Which wasn’t true. He wanted something.

He grimaced the thought away. They needed to get moving.

The addresses of each of the seven victims had correlated into a shape--Bobby had figured that out. Together, he and Sam had peered over a road map and dotted each location out physically with a red marker, looking meaningfully at each other while Dean had gnawed on a thumbnail, determined to focus on the two of them but failing miserably.

That had been only three days after...

Three days, and Dean and Sam had arrived in Sioux Falls to find out “more information” about the demon solstice, to find out “things” and “stuff,” except that the truth was that Dean had just driven because he needed to, and he had headed for Bobby’s because he had needed that too.

Not that Dean had talked about it. Of course he hadn’t talked about it. To anyone. Sam had even asked the morning after, when he’d awoke to find Dean sitting up at the table, eyes staring at the wall and knee bouncing.

“So...” Dean dragged his eyes unwillingly to lock on him, jaw set, as Sam continued, “What happened?”

What an annoying question. What a stupid, awful, annoying question. The only thing worse than the question was the stupid, sleepy smile that crossed Sam’s face as he said it. Like he knew anything at all. Like he had some idea of some stupid as fuck happily ever after that didn’t make any sense at all and was bullshit anyway.

“Nothing, Sam. We’re fine.”

“That’s it? ‘We’re fine?’”

Fuck, wouldn’t he take a hint? Sam pressed on. “You guys were gone for over three hours--”

“I said nothing happened, Sam, ok? Just leave it at that.” He had stood and walked to the door. “Let’s get the fuck out of here, alright?”

Sure, Sam had tried to bring it up again. And sure, Sam must’ve told Bobby that something had happened, because Bobby was eyeing Dean more suspiciously than usual, doing so when he thought Dean wasn’t looking or wasn’t aware. But of course Dean knew. He knew, and he ignored.

Fuck, this computer was taking forever. Just then, he heard the toilet flush, and a few moments later, Sam emerged. Dean looked up at him. “Toxic?”

Sam pulled a face and washed his hands. “You find the address?”

“Yeah,” Dean lied, pulling down the still-loading laptop’s lid. “Got it.”

“Ok then. Let’s do this thing.”

It had been concluded between Sam and Bobby that victim number three’s house was parked over the main hub of the event. His basement aligned, rather unfortunately for him, with old sewer systems. A few cracks through the basement wall landed one squarely in the demons’ labyrinth, a winding assortment of tunnels and tubes which Sam and Dean had assumed would connect them to the leader’s den. But they hadn’t gone into this entirely blind; there was Meg.

“A devil’s trap? Really boys, is that necessary, amongst friends?” She had stood before them in Bobby’s basement, arms folded neatly.

“You don’t look so good, Meg,” Sam said. “Crowley on to you yet?”

Meg pursed her lips. Dean had to admit, Sam had a point. Meg looked tired, if that was possible. Her face seemed drawn, dark circles under her eyes, and she had a bloody lip. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Sam gave a fake laugh. “That’s funny, ‘cause we do.”

Dean glanced to Bobby, standing at his side, and tucked his arms into a tighter knot. He and Bobby were both deeply reticent to do this, but Sam had insisted. They were letting him take the lead, which unfortunately Meg seemed to notice as well.

“What, Dean, not playing today? And Bobby,” her black eyes slid across to him as she grinned wickedly, “If I haven’t already told you, it’s so nice to see you standing. It’s just no fun, killing a cripple.”

Dean couldn’t contain himself. “You shut your damn mouth.”

Meg laughed wickedly. “Down boy, just checking to see you were in working order. Your brother looks more sour than usual, Sam.” She paused, then added, “Still pretty, though.”

“Meg, you need to listen to us. This thing you’re planning, it’s stupid. It’s not going to work.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Planning? What planning.”

“We know. We know about the solstice.”

For a second Meg seemed prepared to deny again, to tease the truth a little longer, when she visibly wilted. “Well. Isn’t that just peachy.”

“We’re not the only ones who know.”

She pulled a face. “And just what the hell is that supposed to mean, angels on your side again? There’s only one Angel stupid enough to care about this kind of crap, and I don’t see him...” She opened her mouth to continue, but she shut it violently, turning her head to Dean with her eyes wide. “Where _is_ your boyfriend, Dean?”

Dean felt heat rising, flushing his cheeks and rushing to the back of his neck, but Sam cut off his building retort.

“Cut it out, Meg. We’re trying to do you a favor.”

“Favor? Please.”

Bobby tutted, finally breaking his silence. “Will you listen up? Sam’s the only one here who gives a good God damn about you--he’s trying to warn you.”

Sam nodded. “It’s not going to work, Meg. Your plan going to fail, and when it does, you-know-who is going to be all over you.”

Meg opened and closed her mouth. After a moment, she said, “Why, because you’ll tell him?”

“What?”

Sam shook his head, but Bobby continued for him. “We don’t even want to be talking to you, so you can bet we don’t want to be talking to Crowley.”

“Mmm, you especially.” She winked; Bobby grimaced.

“Meg,” Sam continued. “We’ve giving you a chance. Give us the information we need: the who, the where, the what--and you can get out of this thing alive.”

Dean sneered, fingers tightening against his arms, practically biting his tongue to not speak and say what he wanted to say, or do what he wanted to do. He wanted to kill Meg; he wanted to kill something, _do_ something. Every hour he’d spent yelling at Sam that this idea was stupid had fallen on deaf ears. Soft spots for Supernaturals never worked out in their favor, when would Sammy figure that out?

Meg blinked at them, considering, shifting her weight from foot to foot. “What about the participants?”

“We kill them.” Dean bit out. “We kill every stinking one of them.”

“But I walk away.”

Sam, glancing back at Dean for a moment, hands extended as if ready to physically restrain him, turned back to her. “Yes.”

Her eyes flicked to Bobby as he spoke. “Understand, we’ll be holding you here, to make certain you keep your word.”

She looked between them for a moment, then, “You have to kill them all. Every one of them. If even one of them escapes, Crowley will--”

Dean laughed darkly. “No love lost, huh?”

She turned and stared at him. “A lost cause is a lost cause. Honestly, I didn’t think it would work in the first place.” Meg hesitated, looking down. “But I had to try.”

Dean was glad Sam spoke at that moment, because he suddenly didn’t feel he could trust his voice. “Meg, we’ll get them all. Just tell us what we need to know.”

And Dean was fucking grateful as hell that Bobby and Sam were tuned into this bitch because fuck all if Dean was hearing one word of it. Whether or not Dean was dwelling in the memories of Cas, time was passing, and there was still no word from him. Dean’s chest was aching, actually physically aching. Like when Sam died. Like when Dad died. Like watching his house burn with his brother in his arms. But it wasn’t supposed to be like this. This kind of ache was entirely pointless and selfish; this kind of ache he wasn’t entitled to. But he couldn’t stop it. It was the needle pricks behind his eyes and the whites of his knuckles as he kneaded his fingers further and further into his own flesh.

“Dean.”

He looked up, surprised to hear Meg call his name. She stared at him for a moment. “Cheer up, buttercup--he always comes back.”

And he actually couldn’t tell if she was being sincere or not--he couldn’t read anything behind her dark eyes and small mouth and that tilt of her head, so he simply unfolded his arms and stalked up the stairs.

Now, in the Impala, driving to 8321 Cyprus Lane, he glanced down at the information Meg had given them, hoping that she had been right, counting out the figures of how many Sam would have to take down, and how many he would have to take down.

“Ten total.”

Sam’s eyes stared ahead. “Mhmm.”

“...and we have to kill all of them.”

“Yup.”

Dean hesitated. “Sure.”

Sam nodded, and Dean sighed, looking back to the road, allowing his eyes to dart down to the hand-drawn map Meg had created for them. “Ok, Sam. Walk me through the tunnels again...”

\----------------

Thomas Neely’s basement was a thing to be dreaded all on it’s own. Granted, Dean was spoiled by Bobby’s basement--even though his was cluttered, it was clear and full of useful gadgets for hunting, killing, even torturing. It was a place of business. But Dean wondered if this man, Thomas Neely, had ever even been into his own basement, let alone made any attempt to have it make sense.

Dean felt like a cartoon, picking up his feet and trying desperately not to touch anything. The stacks of useless shit were high--toppling one of them could trigger a crap avalanche that would no doubt echo down the passageway to warn the demons of their arrival, which was the absolute last thing they needed. They needed stealth.

So, by some unknown grace, they managed to squeak around the piles, skirt the wall, and find the exposed crack in the bricks. Gingerly, Sam shoved in a crowbar, and with their combined weight, they managed to shift the hidden door aside and step quietly into the ghostly interior.

Old sewers were mostly the same--they were low ceilinged, rounded, filled with sludge, a constant dripping noise, and had the smell of hell barfed onto a rotten sandwich. This one fit the ticket nicely, except Dean thought there was a slightly fresher stench here, and that probably only had to do with the increased activity in its quarters.

Dean shifted his back against the arched wall, made eye contact with Sam, then nodded. Silently, they split up, Dean taking the north side and Sam the south. He absolutely, more than anything else in this world, hated that they were following directions, word of mouth, from a demon, much less Meg. Without her, they would be completely lost, and if she were lying, they might as well kiss their asses goodbye.

Bobby had wanted to come with them, but there was no chance in hell. Someone had to watch Meg, and even he and Jody Mills taking turns wasn’t really enough to put Dean’s mind at rest. At the end of the day, it came down to the question, what did Meg value more: a chance to destroy the Winchesters once and for all, or her life? They were all betting on the latter, holding their breath and clasping their weapons close.

Fourty paces in, and the tunnel in front of him split into a fork. He took a deep breath, felt the blood thump through his heart, and in a voice no more than a whisper said, “Cas... I know you’re busy... but now would be a really great time to help us out.” He waited thirty seconds, almost entirely convinced Cas would flutter next to his side, lace his fingers round Dean’s wrist and squeeze, and they would turn around the corner together. But there was nothing next to him but silence.

So Dean peeled around the corner, walked twenty paces, and crept behind the two guards he knew were waiting. He had to take them silently--everything counted on it.

Ruby’s knife sliced into the one on the right, and Dean, as quickly as he could, plucked it out and slid it into the other demon’s throat, cutting off a cry that was about to sound out.

As they slumped to the wall, Dean rushed down the next pipe. In about five minutes, Sam would be in the center and firing the Colt, and then it would definitely be show-time.

The next corner gave him a surprise--a demon was clearly on his way out, minding his own business, when Dean plowed straight into him, knocking them both to to ground. By instinct Dean slammed his hand over the demon’s mouth as he lay over him, pinning him there and wrenching the knife through rib-cage and heart.

Three down, seven to go.

As he crossed left into the next passage, he looked down and was relieved to see that Sam was successfully doing his part--salt was lining each and every exit from this point on, trapping the remaining demons in the center of the system. He slid along, back to the wall, when he spotted the fourth demon. Stabbing the demon in his side, Dean held the knife there, cupping the shout back against the demon’s mouth.

And then something unexpected--about three minutes too soon--Dean heard a shot ring out and echo.

For a split second Dean thought he was running behind, but he realized something must have gone wrong. Breaking into a run and throwing silence and caution to the wind, he ripped his shotgun off his back and ran helter-skelter through the pipes, narrowing himself closer and closer.

He burst around the corner and arrived at the center of the maze, narrow shafts of daylight falling down onto a sanded pit and altar. Dean’s eyes landed on five demons and Sam, reloading his gun. Two were encroaching on him, and three were rapidly trying to escape, black smoke billowing from their mouths. Panic gripping his throat, he shouted the reverse exorcism.

“Nos audi! Rogamus te, servire libertate facias tibi!” Dean, running, took aim and threw his blade to land squarely in the skull of the demon cornering Sam. Sam took over the chant as Dean wrenched the knife out, Sam firing his now loaded Colt into the brains of the second advancing demon.

“Securi tuam Ecclesiam. Maledicte draco, ergo! Diabolica--”

The remaining demons’ escapes were by now soundly squashed back down their vessels’ throats, and without hesitation, Dean whipped the knife around and about, taking out one, Sam two, and then Dean three.

It was done.

\-------------------

“Find anything useful?”

Dean held the phone up to his ear, poking at the remnants of the altar they had knocked down and burnt. “A few books, so maybe. We’re gonna bring them up to you first chance we get.”

He could almost see Bobby rolling his eyes through the phone. “Like I don’t have enough already.”

Dean gave a half-smile. “Well, you never know.”

“So that’s it, huh? Solstice averted?”

“As far as we can tell.” Dean glanced over his shoulder to Sam, who rounded the corner. He’d gotten a sound beating against his temple when he’d been cornered in a tunnel, causing him to fire the colt pre-maturely. Tenderly, held up a wet rag against his skin. He nodded at Dean--the all-clear--who said to Bobby, “Go ahead and release her.”

Bobby sighed unhappily. “Great. Want me to tell her anything?”

Dean bit his lips. What, like a thank you? Hardly. Yes, Meg, thanks indeed for being as much of a bitch as always. But then again, she hadn’t led them wrong. “Just tell her we got it done.”

“Ok...” He trailed off, and Dean waited.

“Bobby?”

“Dean...” Again, the unfinished statement.

“Bobby, what.”

“You’re alright, yeah?”

Dean blinked, hoping that Sam couldn’t hear Bobby’s words through the phone, hoping that he wasn’t completely listening into this conversation. “Of course I am.”

“Because you’d tell me if you weren’t.”

“Bobby--I’m fine.”

“Because you didn’t look it.”

Sam was now peering up from examining a body, staring at Dean curiously. Dean turned his back, cupping his mouth to the receiver. “You’re asking me this now?”

“Well, I didn’t know what to say to you while you were here.”

“But the phone is good?”

“Look, Dean, you and Cas’s business is you and Cas’s business--”

“That’s right. That’s exactly right. So don’t mind it.”

“Dean--”

“Goodbye, Bobby. We’ll see you in a few weeks.” He hung up the phone. Glancing back at Sam, he slung his rifle around his shoulder. “Ready to go?”

Nodding, Sam stood. He was thankfully silent as they repeated their steps, proving useful as he put his shoulder into the brick wall to help slide it back into place. His stoic company lasted all the way to the car, where Dean should have seen the trap coming; he was now a captive audience.

“So, what did Bobby say?”

“Huh?” Dean peeled his eyes from the road, flicking on the windshield wipers against the sudden downpour. He hated driving in the rain at night. “Oh. He’s letting Meg go.”

Sam nodded. “Good, good... but that’s not what I meant.”

Dean side-eyed him warningly. “He also said thanks for the books.”

“Hah! Not likely.”

“Did you find anything interesting in them when you were--”

“Dean.”

Dean slammed his foot on the brakes; he was done. He pulled over to the side of the highway. The headlights of the car caught the rain in a dizzying dance, and he yanked the gear-shift into park as he turned to Sam. “What, Sam. What do you want me to say.”

“I want you to talk about it.”

“What _it_?”

“Whatever it is that has been bothering you for the past two weeks. You’ve been fucking shit company, Dean, and that’s saying something, because you’re usually shit company.”

“Well excuse me, Sam, I didn’t realize I was so difficult to live with.”

“Dammit, Dean, what happened between you and Cas?”

Dean’s jaw clicked as he ground his teeth. “Sam--”

“I’m serious. What happened? Are you two, what, done? Are you not friends anymore or something? You won’t tell me!”

Dean gripped the steering wheel and twisted his wrists, causing the leather to squeak tenuously. “Sammy...”

“Dean, please. You’re my brother. I want to help you. But I can’t do that unless you talk to me.”

“Sam, there’s nothing to help, ok? Cas an’ me... we’re... we’re fine. Ok? We’re what we--” He choked on his words, because even a lie about things being the way they always were was impossible to say. “We’re fine.”

“Dean, you are not fine.”

Dean shrugged his hands and didn’t answer. He looked out his window, fishing about vaguely for something to say that would end this line of questioning. But Sam cut him off. “Did you tell him?”

Dean’s stomach flared up, the blood rushed through his heart to every extremity but his head, and he heard himself say something stupid, something along the lines of, “I don’t know what you’re...” but then he trailed off into nothing.

“Did you kiss him?”

“Sam!” Dean whirled around and glared at him. “Come on--I’m not gonna--”

“Dean.”

Nowhere to go. In a fucking car on the side of the road, rain pouring down around them, and nowhere to go. Finally, “Yes.”

“Yes you told him, or yes you kissed him?”

“I kissed him, ok? And I... I sort of told him.”

Sam nodded. Dean wanted more than anything to take off his jacket, because it was absurdly hot in here. Why the hell did Sam want the heater on anyway?

“Did you have sex?”

“Jesus, Sammy--”

“Well?”

Dean didn’t want to meet his eyes, but he did anyway, feeling heat burn up to the top of his ears. “Yes.”

Sam started to smile, and Dean wanted to punch him right in his stupid face. “You must really like him, you didn’t say anything about it.”

“The hell does that mean?”

“Well, it’s not like you to not brag about a conquest...”

“Wha--Cas is not a conquest, ok? And I don’t--I do not kiss and tell.”

“...Unless it wasn’t good.”

“Christ, Sam--”

“Was it not good?”

“Why--why are you--” Sam just blinked innocently at him, still holding the water-soaked rag against his head. Dean felt a violent need to defend Cas, to defend what he had gone through that night, because good wasn’t word enough for what he experienced. It was ground-breaking, a fucking revelation. Best sex he’d ever fucking had sat somewhere back in his throat, but he said instead, “It was good.”

“Good?”

“...Awesome.”

Sam smiled, nodding at the seat. “Well then, congrats.”

“Yeah, fucking congratulations to me. Banging an Angel. So tell me this: where did I end up that morning.”

Sam looked back up at him, eyes dark. “He left?”

Dean stared out ahead, watching the tail-lights of a passing car. “He left.”

Sam hesitated. “I assume it must have been important.”

For a moment, Dean didn’t say anything. He nodded, and swallowed, and allowed the silence to settle before he spoke. “Sam, what’s the longest time we’ve gone without word from Cas?”

“You mean, like, ever?”

He nodded and waited. Sam, leaning back in the seat and popping his back, thought for a moment. “I guess... it would have to be a year, wouldn’t it? After I jumped, and you...” He gestured off to the distance in a way Dean assumed was meant to represent Lisa.

“So, a year, then.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

Dean blinked, chewed on his lip, then turned his eyes meaningfully to Sam. Sam’s brows furrowed. “Dean. He’s not gonna be gone for a year.”

“That’s not the point, Sam.”

“I know he cares about you.”

“Sam, we were in knee-deep shit tonight, and he didn’t show.”

“Did you call him?”

“Yeah, I did. I said a prayer and fucking nothing. But, Sam, that’s not... I mean...” Dean waited, hoping Sam would fill in the gaps, but his brother simply blinked at him until Dean continued, “What’s the point of all of this, a relationship or an attempt at one, if we’re never even gonna--if it’s not--Sam, it’s not a relationship.” He stared at Sam, tasting his words as he proceeded slowly. “I’m not gonna one-night stand this thing every so often when he can make it down to join us. I don’t want that.”

Sam’s brows furrowed deeply, and his eyes filled with pity and kindness. “Because you love him.”

“Because I don’t want that, ok?” Dean took a deep breath, ignoring the slight shudder in his shoulders as he did so. “So that’s what I’ve been dealing with. For the past two weeks. Ya happy now?”

He returned his eyes to the road, shifted the gear back into drive, and slowly eased himself away from the graveled shoulder and onto the glistening black pavement. There was a moment of silence, and then Sam whispered quietly, “No, I’m not happy.”

Well, Dean thought, that made two of them.

The hotel was three miles away, and after an eternity, they reached it. Sam said no more to him, and as Dean sank down into the sheets, his head was quiet for the first time. Because really, what was there left to say?


	8. Whispers in the Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Homecoming.

If truth were told, Dean knew he hadn’t moved on. He had loved and lost, but he was still walking. His heart was wrapped up and sheathed again. When he sat to eat at a diner with Sam, he openly checked out the pretty waitresses and joked about taking them home. If Dean gave the appearance of being whole, he knew that eventually his heart would catch up.

Except that it didn’t. He noticed it more and more in the dark, as the sun set earlier and earlier, and the weather got colder and colder. The shopping malls decked themselves in white Christmas lights that would whiz past into a blur as he and Sam drove, drove, and drove.

Dean no longer cared for Christmas. The last year in which it had mattered had been his last year on Earth, and somehow, when he came back, the world seemed to grow darker. Angels existed, the devil was after his brother, and Christmas seemed to lose any luster it had once held. Dean knew that the best part of Christmas had always been Sammy, and remembering what it was like when Sammy believed. Getting him presents, wrapping them up, telling him that Santa could find them no matter what hotel they stayed at that night. He always had to buy their dad’s gift for Sam. Of course, after that, he’d never had enough money left over to get Sam anything good from himself. But Sam was always happy with whatever small presents he got.

The army man stuck in the back of the car had been a gift from Dean. He’d found a box of ten left over on a playground.

But Sam had grown up. Sam had learned, or rather, Dean had told him the truth. For awhile after that, they never went anywhere for Christmas. They pretended to forget that it existed. Except that Bobby wouldn’t let them forget. He had invited them seasons before, but they’d avoided coming for practical reasons: traffic was hell at Christmas, it was impossible to make it up from Texas to Sioux Falls in that amount of time, etc. Eventually, however, Bobby’s tenacity, and Sam and Dean’s hidden loneliness, won out; Christmas, complete with a stupid tree, had happened.

It wasn’t a consistent thing. Obviously Dean hadn’t gone to Bobby’s the Christmas he had spent with Lisa. Looking back, that year had felt so foreign to him. Family and friends he barely knew and really didn’t care to know were suddenly thrust onto him. He had missed Sam so much on that day that every single bone in his body ached.

He and his scotch had hidden away from the crowds of people, taking refuge in the garage. Lifting the cloth from the Impala, he tucked himself into the back seat, pressed a finger against the stupid green army man, and hurt.

And yet, just the next year, they’d all been together at Bobby’s. Dean had been unable to stop checking himself, staring at Sam without any belief at all in his reality. He would touch Sam sporadically, patting his knee or back, just to make certain. They hadn’t exchanged gifts that year--they didn’t need them. They simply sat around Bobby’s make-shift stack-of-books-with-lights tree, drank beer, and laughed; he, Bobby, Sam, and Cas.

Cas hadn’t been an official invite--but he’d stopped by and they had included him in the festivities. And in the end, it ended up being the happiest Christmas Dean ever felt he had had. For once, there was no shadow hanging over them. For once, it was just their lives and each other, and he wouldn’t have had it any other way. Sam was alive; Bobby was laughing loudly; Cas was explaining absently that the real Christmas Eve occurred in June, remarking that it had smelled absolutely wretched, and that a sheep had defecated near the manger. Dean had almost spit out his beer.

That was last year. Last year’s Christmas had been, for lack of any better word, perfect. But all Dean could think, as Sam casually directed hints that they should stay in the northern states through December, was that he wanted to get as far away from Christmas as he possibly could.

Seven weeks, two days; Cas still wasn’t back.

He should have known Sam would eventually win out--Dean had no resolve against both he and Bobby. How could he say no when Bobby’s phone conversations almost always ended with, “I’ll see you boys soon--you’re coming up, right?”

Bobby never really said for Christmas. It was implied though.

“Well...” Dean would say, “There are some cases down in Mississippi,” or “Georgia,” or “Vermont,” even.

“I’m sure they can hold for a bit. We ain’t the only hunters in this country, you know.”

Which was the complete opposite attitude to the average day. So Dean would sigh, “Yeah, ok Bobby.”

And Sam, peering over their road maps, checking on his smart phone, would ever so casually say, “Got anything for Bobby?”

“Huh?”

“For Christmas.”

“Oh, I dunno.” Dean would clear his throat. “I hadn’t thought, really...”

“He mentioned he wanted a deep freezer.”

“That’s a lot of money, Sam.”

“Yeah, well, you know. If we come across one somewhere...” And Sam would direct them north to the next case.

One week before Christmas, they showed up at Bobby’s door. They hadn’t found a deep freeze on the side of the road or in an abandoned house like they’d wanted. Dean hoped that Bobby really had a need for salt.

“Five boxes, each packed with a sexy little Morton girl. All for you, Bobby.”

He and Sam plopped them at the front door as Bobby tugged them each into hugs. Dean grunted reluctantly. “It’s not that great of a gift, Bobby.”

“No, it’s a fuckin’ terrible gift--Merry Christmas, boys.”

Sam laughed as he pulled away, heading up the stairs with his and Dean’s bags. “It’s not Christmas yet.”

“Ooo,” said Bobby with fake enthusiasm. “That mean I get to unwrap more salt on actual Christmas?”

Dean chuckled, following Bobby into the study, when he stopped suddenly. There, standing in the corner, was a Christmas tree. A real Christmas tree. It’s boughs were dripping with tinsel and red and gold ornaments, and it’s smell and white glow filled the room completely, dwarfing Dean as he gazed up at it, wordless. He had never had a Christmas with a real tree before--a real, honest to goodness tree--not even with Lisa. Jesus, how fucking tall was this thing?

“Bobby...” he whispered, turning his gaze to Bobby, who stood in the doorway to the kitchen. “You’ve gone soft.”

Pulling a face, Bobby stalked away. “It’s Jody’s fault. Told her you boys were coming home, and she insisted.” He returned to Dean, two beers in hand. “I had nothin’ to do with it.”

Dean smiled, chinking his bottle against Bobby’s. “Nice and domestic life you got here, with your girlfriend.”

Bobby almost choked as Dean laughed. Wiping at his chin with his hands, beer dribbling onto his chest, Bobby glared at Dean. “Idjit.” He stalked off to the kitchen as Dean peered at the room around him.

Jody certainly must’ve taken a day off to help Bobby, or at least given him a Saturday. The more he peered around the house, the more he noticed. Little Santa hats topped  the corners of picture frames, and fake ivy was wrapped around the stair banister. There was a Rudolph and a sleigh on a nearby stack of books, and there were three presents under the tree. Smiling, Dean leaned down to look at them. “Who are these for, Bobby?”

“Huh?” Bobby called from the kitchen. “Oh. You three, obviously.”

“Three--?” And with a snap, Dean realized who the third was. He closed his mouth, and peered around to the fireplace. There, four stockings were hung, with four initials written clumsily in marker on their fronts: B, D, S, and C.

“Didn’t know if Cas was gonna make it or not...” Bobby said slowly, once again in the doorway to the kitchen, leaning against the frame. He watched Dean carefully. “But I thought I’d get him something just to be safe.”

Dean looked down at his feet, hands digging into his belt buckle. Dean hated how loud his swallow was, hated how he felt his lip quiver into something that wasn’t a smile or a frown, hated how he still wasn’t, still wasn’t, over it. He tried so hard to be angry, but there was no wind in his sails. He didn’t want to be angry, he just wanted Cas. “Can’t imagine there’d be anything he wanted.”

“Hello, Dean.”

Everything stopped. Dean whirled around, and everything stopped, because there, standing in front of the bay window, was Cas. There was a moment when the only sound audible was the ticking of the clock. Slowly, Cas smiled. “You’ve never summoned me with just your heart before.”

Cas moved to take a step to him, but Dean fell back, eyes wide. Behind him he could hear Sam coming down the stairs. “Cas?”

Cas nodded to each man as he spoke, “Sam. Bobby.” There was something strange about his face--he looked pulled, withdrawn. But there was a set smile across his lips as he slid his eyes back to Dean.

Bobby blinked at Cas, Sam stood agape in the doorway, and Dean just stared, his eyes boring into Cas’s until, finally, he spoke. “Where. The hell. Have you been.”

Cas swallowed and dropped his eyes, as Bobby and Sam, making eye contact, very quietly exited the room. When Cas finally looked up at Dean, he said, very slowly, “It is a long story, Dean.”

“Fuckin’ better be.” Oh yeah, Dean had found his anger.

Cas seemed at a loss for where to begin. He fidgeted, and then very suddenly took three strides toward Dean, who could not escape fast enough. In seconds Cas’s hands were around his face, and he pressed their lips together. Dean struggled for a moment, succumbed and tasted him, then thrashed away.

“Who the fuck said you could kiss me, huh?” Dean glared at him, hands up, guarding about himself. “I’m fuckin’ pissed, Cas!”

“I missed you,” he replied, and fuck Dean could tell he meant it in the way his eyes crinkled deeply under his brow. But Dean kept going.

“Seven fucking weeks, Cas. And I prayed for you too, you son of a bitch. Sam and I were in deep a few weeks back, and--”

“I know, I’m sorry. I heard, but I--”

“You _heard_? You fucking heard me and you what, dicked around some more up in Heaven because angel business is so much fu--”

“Dean, I was restrained!” Cas didn’t shout, but his voice was deep and heavy. He gestured, palms up, toying with his fingers and speaking low. “I could not come, though I so wanted to--needed to.”

For the first time, Dean was listening. Eyes hard, he said, “The hell does that mean, restrained?”

“Exactly what it sounds like, Dean.” Sighing, Cas hesitated, and then, after a moment, pushed back the sleeves of his coat. There, laced around Cas’s delicate wrists, were two raised circlets of skin, as though he had been burned. Dean exhaled sharply, grabbing Cas’s hands as gently as he could and peering close at the injuries, as Cas continued, a soft smile growing about his lips. “As you can see I was, as you might say, a bit tied up.”

A joke. A joke, an injury, and Dean’s fucking heart broke. It shattered into a million pieces as he looked up at Cas, cupping his cheek tenderly. “Cas, what happened?”

Cas pressed his face against Dean’s hand, closing his eyes for a moment. Then, he said, “Dean, you must promise me... you must promise me that you won’t feel guilty.”

Dean stared at him, because he was already feeling himself fill with guilt, already kicking himself for begrudging Cas’s absence, already hating that he wasn’t there to stop whatever it was that had hurt Cas, already planning on finding a way to kick some serious angel ass. “Too late.”

“Dean, I am serious. You must understand--if I’m going to tell you this story, you must understand that what happened was my choice--I went through this because I wanted it. Because I had to, for me. Promise me, Dean.”

“I--”

“Dean.”

Dean shook his head, doubtingly. “Fine. I promise.”

Cas nodded and, as though he couldn’t resist himself, pressed a firm kiss against Dean’s fingers, then leaned against the desk to tell his tale.

\----------------------------

Castiel shuddered through the boundary of heaven, feeling the invisible settling of his wings against his back. He stood outside what was once an ornate, Romanesque building, that was now a crumbling, blackened shadow of itself. He hesitated to go in; he needed a moment--he needed several moments. He was sure that the second he walked in that door his past hours would be clearly read all over him.

He shouldn’t be sweating; he shouldn’t sweat period, but he knew he was. He could taste it above his lips, feel it under his arms, in the crooks of his elbows. It ran slick in the space between his hands and Dean’s skin. Dean’s skin beneath his own, the feel of Dean’s stubble against his tongue and mouth...

Four hours wasn’t enough to process everything. He felt like he was reliving everything in real time, and perhaps he was. Perhaps this is what happened when an Angel copulated. Perhaps this was why they weren’t meant to. Perhaps this is why it was a sin.

Or perhaps, he allowed, perhaps this was just what happened. This was humanity. This was what being with Dean could be like, every time. This was, in the most intimate sense of it, love. Cas couldn’t stop himself from smiling. He had never thought that Dean Winchester would love him, even in the simplest, most basic sense of that word. How could Cas have known at their first meeting what Dean would become to him? Cas had not ever loved before. Love, and all emotions of its kind, were forbidden. But as he grew in love, like never before, he gave up everything and everyone for his new faith in a man.

Cas thought himself years, ages, lifetimes older than that person now. In the beginning, he hadn’t really understood why his affection for Sam was not the same as his affection for Dean, why he was suddenly aware of his human heart beating whenever Dean was near or whenever Dean laughed, why his hands felt clumsy and stupid whenever Dean touched his shoulder.

But then, after a while, he knew. He learned through TV. He learned through stories the Winchesters told. He learned the moment he watched Dean step into another man’s life to try and live it by Lisa’s side. What he had eventually grown to understand was that there were different kinds of love, and Cas finally knew his heart was well and truly held by Dean.

And upon discovery, he had explored every aspect of that. He had thought of what that kind of love meant, what those kinds of partners did for each other. This meditation eventually brought him to the thought of sex. He had never truly thought about it before, certainly not in terms of himself. If anything, he was mildly amused and potentially disgusted by it. But even Cas knew that, every so often, the idea intrigued him. Because it was love. It was intimacy. The thought of Dean pressing against him, that close, looking at him... Cas’s eyes had widened. Yes, it did intrigue him. Too much, in fact.

And then one day, Dean Winchester wound up as a girl, plastered himself to Cas, and drunkenly proclaimed them to be together. How on earth could he have predicted or known how to react to that? And, what’s more, how could he have known that a few weeks from then, Dean, his own Dean, would be pressing lips and thighs against him, pushing and pulling, needing and wanting more, more, more...

Cas shook his head. He needed to stop--rather, he needed to go. The buzz-line wire of angel communion was humming more and more urgently at him, _Castiel, Castiel, Castiel_... And all he wanted in this moment, in any moment, was to go back to Dean, to slide under the covers next to him, and to count the freckles on his cheeks again. To hold his hand and tell him things, everything. He wanted to go _home_.

Cas felt a surge, a rise of a tremendous anger welling inside of him. Wasn’t Dean right? Hadn’t he fought to be free from demand? Hadn’t he earned the right to say no, and wasn’t a time like now the time to say it?

Hadn’t he earned that?

He hardened his jaw as he looked up to the craggy building that was crumbling under the weight of desperation. Slowly, he raised a foot and began to climb the stairs.

Not yet.

\----------------------------

“Castiel, you are late.”

Cas looked to either side. Iniss and Hester had met him at the door, but now that he stood before Raphael, they had vanished into the darkness. Cas stared up, standing square in the middle of the marble compass embedded into the floor. Raphael sat high on his judge’s throne, flanked on all sides by Cas’s brothers and sisters. He recognized the former members of he and Uriel’s garrison. He recognized Samandriel, who gave him a small smile before returning his expression to stone. Cas opened his mouth to speak when Raphael spoke again, cutting him off.

“You were promoted, Castiel, were you not? And yet, you consistently disappoint. It is your job to report to me--”

“I understand my job. However, I was occupied.”

“Occupied? With whom, the Winchesters?”

And awfully, terribly, Cas felt a heat begin to rise up in his flesh. How could he blush like this? They would all know, they had to. Could he actually hear, or was he imagining, a slight mummer in the crowd? “I was.”

He watched as Raphael shifted, his mouth pulling into a vicious sneer. “How can you consort with those--”

“God has protected them, Raphael. It is known.”

Cas’s eyes flickered through the Angels as he heard the agreement, the echoed _It is known, It is known_. He chewed his lips so as not to smile as he said to Raphael, “If God has chosen them, then I feel that my time is well spent at their side.”

“Fool. God chose them as Vessels, and they turned their backs on us.”

“And yet, remain they do, as do we. This point is moot, Raphael, and has already been discussed at length. What purpose have you summoned me for?”

Raphael could clearly barely contain his dislike for the former soldier at his feet. Heaven was not adjusting well to the idea of a democracy, and though Raphael had hated every single thing about what Castiel had helped to do, he believed strongly in a united Heaven. Becoming the General seemed the logical choice to every garrison united with Cas, so they had elected him as he was Heaven’s most powerful Angel. And though he despised Cas, he let him remain in the position God had granted him as Seraphim. God had favored Cas--God had granted him life--and God had allowed the world to continue, even though the Winchesters had returned Lucifer to the cage. It was an uneasy alliance in this Civil War, and somewhere in his heart, Cas knew his own personal battle with Raphael was yet to come.

“Castiel,” said Raphael at last. “You have been summoned to lead the 10th garrison--”

Cas’s eyes snapped up. “No.”

The crowd shifted, whispering to each other. Raphael raised an eyebrow. “No?”

“With... with all due respect,” Cas hesitated. “The 10th garrison is--”

“On the front line. Leading the charge against the rebels. You, Castiel--you are the natural choice. For you understand the way a rebel thinks.” There was such bile in his voice at the word rebel that the room seemed the thunder with it.

But Cas did not back down. “You cannot order me to do this. I am not a Soldier anymore.”

“No, Castiel. You are a leader. Or meant to be one, when you’re not galavanting around on Earth.”

Cas ground his teeth. “I have fought harder than any of you and for longer. Where was I when the Apocalypse was averted? What battles have I not fought for you? For all of us?” He appealed to his audience, drawing their eyes to him as he stepped forward. “Raphael, I will serve you, but not in this way.” He lowered his voice, dangerously, so that only Raphael and his closest Soldiers could hear him. “Do not forget who it is God has chosen.”

Raphael’s nose crinkled. “Castiel, you stink of man. Your being is so tarnished that it does not bear to have you in our presence.”

“Then I offer you an easy solution, Raphael.” Cas stared at him earnestly. “Let me go. Let me go be where you know I ought to be.”

Raphael leaned down, bringing his face close, speaking low. “Prostrate and dead, wings burned beneath you?” He sneered. “Oh Castiel, what a pretty tree your Grace would grow.”

Cas lifted his head and waited. After over a year of Civil unrest, he was used to these empty threats. He waited for Raphael to make his real point, which he slowly did, begrudgingly. “Castiel, you are needed in Heaven.”

“And I will not forsake it. But I am needed on Earth as well.”

Raphael looked at him for a long moment. Then, finally, he took a breath, and spoke loudly so the whole room could hear him. Castiel felt his heart sink.

“Castiel, you are a Seraphim of the Lord, and as I was elected by servants of the Lord to lead, you must serve under my rule and my decisions. Therefore, you will leave immediately for the far western skies, taking only your blade, your--”

“I invoke my right!” Cas cut him off, unfurling his wings from behind his back, filling himself with power, “Under our New Order of the year two thousand and ten, the four billionth year of light, I invoke my right.” He stared at Raphael. “My right to my trial of free will, the trial for my release from your servitude.”

The room did not try to hide its consternation--there was an outright uproar as Raphael’s face slid downward into a frown. “You know not what you do, Castiel.”

It was, in part, true. No one had ever gone through a free-will trial. It was an experiment, an after-thought, a little footnote added into their new Constitution that had been scribbled out over harried nights and months. Castiel himself had added this part in--perhaps he had always known it would come to this.

“You brought this upon yourself, Raphael.”

“And who, dear Castiel, in this brave new world, will represent you.”

A silence began to fall as Raphael’s words echoed against the marble walls and floors. Cas hesitated--in any Angel tribunal, an Angel was forbidden to represent himself. But who here would stand for him against their General? After a moment, suddenly, a small voice spoke through the crowd. “I will.”

Samandriel stepped forward and around to Cas’s side. “I will represent the Seraphim.”

“Very well.” Raphael sank back into his chair. “Congratulations, Castiel. Your little system works. But I still make the rules here.” He snapped his fingers, and quite suddenly, the room around him began to vanish--Cas felt his hands and arms constrained, suddenly bound, as he was forced backward by an invisible force and strapped to a chair. Iron clasps cut through against Cas’s wrists, and with a sudden cry, Cas realized they were burning him. Raphael appeared before him, once again high in his judge’s chair, four other angels flanking his sides.

“And I am still your judge. What an excellent example you will set, Castiel.”

He flicked his fingers and the bands tightened against Cas. Others appeared against his ankles and legs. He could not move, and a rope suddenly bound itself around his mouth to gag him.

Samandriel appeared before him, quite confounded as to what was happening. He looked at Cas, and as Cas tried to speak, the rope coiled itself into hot metal against his tongue and lips. He cried out, and the bind burned hotter. It was only when he fell silent that the metal turned to rope once more. But no such relief came against the bands on his legs and wrists. A cloth began to bind itself around his eyes, as he heard Raphael speak. “Now then, Soldier Samandriel. Tell us what the traitor demands.”

\----------------------

“Dean....”

Cas sighed, rubbing a hand across his brow. He looked at Dean, who had, as he listened, seated himself on the sofa. He stared at Cas, mouth agape and eyes wide.

“I’m sorry, Dean, I--” He laughed a little, before he continued. “Is it possible that I could... continue this story later? I find myself... I don’t know if this is the right term but I’m... tired.”

Dean looked at him. “Were you held there the whole time?”

Cas sighed and pinched the top of his nose, pressing against his eyelids. “Dean--”

“Seven weeks?”

“...Yes.”

He opened his eyes to look at Dean, clearly surprised when he found that Dean wasn’t sitting on the couch anymore. In fact, Dean had stood, and was performing a strange lifting motion at Cas’s back and legs. “Dean, what are you--Dean, you cannot carry me--”

But Dean was trying to do just that. He was grappling with his footing, then his arms, around one side then the other, finally grunting in frustration. “Dammit, Cas, help me out here--”

Cas, wordlessly, turned to face Dean. He looped his arms slowly around Dean’s neck, felt Dean slip his hands under him, and knotted his feet around Dean’s waist. It had been too long since they had been this close. Their faces were inches apart and their bodies pressed together tightly. “Dean... where are you taking me?”

Dean looked at him, voice husky. “To bed.”

“Oh.” Cas hesitated, blinking very slowly, eyes heavy. “I’m not sure I’ll make an adequate lover right now.”

Dean shook his head, as he slowly started walking. “Shh, Cas: I’m taking you to get some sleep.” Dean, hitching his breath for the trek, pulled Cas closer to him as he began to walk up the stairs. “Because you actually do need sleep, Cas.”

“Mmmph...” Cas mumbled into the skin at Dean’s neck--he had collapsed his head there when Dean hushed him. At the top of the stairs, Dean turned and walked the long hallway past the rec room, tightening his grip as he softly kicked open the door. Cas whispered tenderly against him. “You don’t have to carry me...”

“Want to.” And Dean tried, he really tried, to lay Cas down gently, but the weight was too much. Eventually, he sort of nudged Cas down from him, watching as he unfolded then refolded himself upon the bed.

It was the twin bed that Dean had slept on as a kid, when he’d stayed at Uncle Bobby’s for fun weekends away from Dad. It still had the car-themed sheets and pillow cases Dean had grown up with, and there was a big red truck pattern on the comforter. Dean tugged this up and over Cas, reaching down to take off Cas’s shoes. Cas watched him, taking this in with a sleepy smile, as Dean lay down next to him, their knees touching, barely inches away from each other on such a small space. Castiel pulled his hand out from under him and tucked it into the V of Dean’s shirt.

“This was your bed?”

“Yes.” Dean placed his head near Cas’s, stroking his fingers gently up and down the Angel’s cheek.

“Mmm. I like it. It’s very you.” Cas’s voice was slow, and the exhaustion behind his eyes was almost unbearable. After a moment, he spoke again, voice almost breaking. “I wanted you so much, Dean.”

Dean bit down hard on his lip and swallowed hard. “Shhh, Cas...Go to sleep.”

“It’s been so long since I... I don’t remember how.”

And Dean very slowly gathered the Angel in his arms. He kissed him on the lips, the cheeks, the chin, the eyes, “It’s ok Cas. You’re here now. Just relax.” He pressed his lips against his forehead. “I got you.”

It took a few minutes, but after a while Dean realized that the Angel’s breathing had changed, and had steadied into a rhythm. He was limp inside the circle of Dean’s arms; he was asleep. Finally, Dean allowed himself the tears he hadn’t cried while Cas had been talking, when he had been staring at the Angel and seeing just how tired he really was. When he listened helplessly to what Cas had told him. And his story wasn’t over yet. Dean stared at the injuries that even now blistered red from Cas’s skin--how hot must his binds have burned to mark an Angel? He pulled Cas’s hand into his own and kissed, and kissed, and kissed his wrists, pulling him closer, never ever wanting to let go.


	9. Open Arms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cas finishes his story and starts a new one.

Dean opened the door carefully and peered in. Castiel lay on the bed, somewhere between sprawled out and curled up, his fists clenched at his face but his legs askew. His eyes were closed tight, and Dean could tell he was dreaming fitfully. Walking in as quietly as he could, he brushed a hand across Cas's brow to soothe him and watched as the tension melted away. He checked the marks on Cas's wrists--they were fading, slowly.

Castiel slept like a rock, and Dean had only ever seen him sleep once before. Part of Dean kept thinking that somehow the missing half of Cas’s story would reveal that he was now human, that Cas had somehow lost his Grace and was now mortal. But Dean remembered how suddenly Castiel had appeared in the middle of the study, how Cas still felt like a little oven under Dean’s hands. Even now he could feel the heat radiating from him. He had never asked, but Dean had always assumed that all that Vessel-contained angelic energy caused him to run at a higher temperature than was normal.  So, once again assured that the creature beneath his fingertips was sleeping and not dead or altered, Dean crept out of the room. 

Three times a day he checked. Two times in the daylight and once before he went to bed. Every night Dean walked into the room hoping that he could settle in beside him. But Cas looked so comfortable on that twin bed, and there was just no room left. If Cas needed sleep then Cas needed sleep, end of discussion. Dean wasn’t going to risk waking him, no matter how much he wanted to hold Cas in his arms. 

These little checks--these little assurances--kept Dean calm as he would return downstairs each night to sleep on the couch.

As Dean appeared in the kitchen doorway, Sam and Bobby peered up anxiously from their morning coffee. Dean had told them everything that had happened to Cas, at least everything that he knew so far. He had watched their shocked faces, seen their dropped jaws, and felt morose delight when Bobby and Sam said angels were shit. So when Dean shook his head, they deflated, Sam returning to his laptop and Bobby to his newspaper. Dean stood next to them at the kitchen table, and Bobby extended a section of the paper to him.

"Sports?"

Dean looked on blankly for a second. He couldn’t remember the last time he'd seen the stats or scores--he hadn’t had any time, and he didn’t really care. But, in a way, he did. Because it was normal. Looking at the sports page was normal. So he got a cup of coffee, sat down, and opened the section of normal, trying and failing to pay attention to what it said.

The sun filtered down through the kitchen curtains; it was Christmas Eve. Cas had been asleep for six days. Dean was surprised it wasn’t snowing. Wasn’t that the famous appeal of Christmas in a northern state? That there would be snow on Christmas? He peered out the window and up at the sky--the clouds were promising. But they’d been promising for days now, and still nothing. He found himself irritated at the weather for being so uncooperative. But Bobby spoke, and Dean urgently turned his head around as he heard, “Hey Cas, good to see ya!”

Dean spilled his coffee as he dropped it to the table. Cas was at the bottom of the stairs, slowly making his way into the study, nodding at them, “Hello.”

Kicking himself away from the table, Dean stood rapidly, his chair squeaking in protest, Sam and Bobby at his back. He swallowed as Cas met his eyes, smiling shyly. “I’m afraid I over-slept.”

Dean walked over to him, dumbly aware of Bobby and Sam watching. He tried not to care but felt shy about it anyway. He reached out awkwardly to Cas, settling lamely for patting his shoulder. “How you feelin’?”

Cas nodded. “I am improved, vastly.” He looked around to the room. “How long was I asleep?”

“Six days,” Sam answered. He leaned his massive frame in the doorway. “We thought you were gonna miss Christmas.”

“Oh!” Cas blinked, then after a moment, said, “I didn’t, did I?”

“No, Cas, you didn’t,” Dean said, screwing up his courage and placing his hand on Cas’s back, leaving it there and looking at him fondly.

Cas smiled wider. “That is good. I wanted to spend another with you three. Of course,” he said, looking around the room, seeming to take it in for the first time. He walked to the tree, gazing at it, and turned around to the fireplace. “It looks much nicer this year.”

Bobby rolled his eyes. “Jody did it.”

Cas’s eyes alighted on something--he moved forward and around Bobby’s desk to the fireplace, taking his stocking in his hand. He looked at it, running his fingers over the ‘C’ that had been written there. “But,” he said quietly, “ _You_ did this, Bobby.”

Cas turned to him and Bobby shifted his feet uncomfortably. Cas’s voice almost cracked as he said, “Thank you.”

There was a moment of complete silence, where Cas looked at his stocking, Bobby stared at his toes, and Dean stared at Cas, heart in his throat. He should have kissed him the moment he saw him. He wondered if he could kiss him now, and wondered just how he could politely hint that he wanted everyone else to leave for at least three hours so he could hold Cas properly, when Sam finally spoke. “Dean told us what you went through, Cas.” When Cas looked up, he continued. “I’m so sorry.”

Cas, shaking his head, moved to the sofa and sat tenderly, as if he’d never really experienced the comfort of sitting on a couch. He placed his hands carefully on either side of him, and said, “I suppose you would like to hear the rest of it.”

Dean frowned at his brother. “Cas, you don’t have to say anything now if you don’t want to.”

Sam’s jaw dropped as he hastily added, “No, that’s not--I didn’t mean to rush you, Cas, I just--”

Cas sighed with a smile. “Sam. It is a story I have to tell. It might as well be now.” He turned to look at Dean, who crossed the space between them and settled next to Cas on the couch. He rested a hand at the base of Cas’s back, and he touched their thighs together. Cas seemed to visibly relax as Dean drew him closer, holding him tight as he, Sam, and Bobby, sat through Cas’s trial.

\---------------------

The air around him was silent. Castiel, once again, for an untold time, tried his hands against the binds. It was futile and he knew it; the smell of his burning flesh was a hard reminder. But he didn’t stop trying. Every second he had alone, when the council had faded from him and the darkness peeked in from behind the blindfold, he tried to free himself.

He had lost track of the days or weeks... had it been months? It could not have been. Listening to Raphael list his acres of faults and flaws--it seemed that he did not want to bind Castiel to his side, he more wanted to discredit his very being. Raphael seemed determined to strip Castiel of everything. The end result could only be the loss of his Grace.

Cas struggled harder against the bonds, and tried to soothe himself, tried to breathe deep and remember why he was here, what he could get if only he could win. Freedom... and Dean.

Dean calmed him; Dean stayed his hands; Dean eased the burn against his wrists. He even numbed the sting at the corners of his mouth, where the rope gag tugged with every swallow. For thirty minutes, perhaps, he had peace.

Until he heard Dean speak.

He actually heard his voice.

_Cas… I know you’re busy… but now would be a really great time to help us out._

And his heart sunk. What had been comfort and happiness moments before was now the true torture. Blindly, Castiel tried to vanish. He tried to unfurl his wings and rip against his binds--to disappear into nothing and then everything, steps away from Dean’s side.

And then the fire was within him. The burn against his skin wasn’t nearly as acute as the flames that crushed around him now. He cried out in terror and felt the rope burn into metal in his mouth, heard a tooth crack against it as he bit and bit and bit and yelled and screamed.

But there was no release or escape in unconsciousness--Castiel was bound here, permanently. The only way to ease his pain was to withdraw, pull his wings back in, lay against the chair, and shudder into silence.

He needed to say Dean’s name. If he could say it, then perhaps Dean would know, perhaps Dean could hear. _I have not abandoned you... I have not abandoned you..._

His tongue clicked the first syllable, clicked the thought to life, and he prayed--Castiel _prayed_ \--that somehow Dean would know. That somehow Dean would understand.

For the next week, Castiel was perfectly still. He did nothing but breathe, listen, and focus. Focus his mind hard. He had to get out of this. He had to get back to Dean. He had to get _out_.

\-------------------------

The first time he had sent an image to Samandriel’s mind, the younger Angel had visibly started.

“Is everything alright?” Raphael had asked, not because he cared, but because any deviation from the normal was a pressing concern. Castiel, probing again, gently, could almost make out, through Samandriel’s eyes, Raphael’s stern gaze. Cas tried to soothe Samandriel; he couldn’t use words, instead he sent images. Thoughts of himself, thoughts of that Tuesday afternoon he loved to visit so much. After a moment, Samandriel spoke.

“It is nothing, Raphael. I only... was hoping we could adjourn for a short time.”

Castiel retreated back into his mind--the connection was tremulous, and difficult to bear. He gripped his fingers to his chair, hearing without listening to the conversation between the council, ignoring on Samandriel’s behalf the jabs at his stamina. It took only a few moments before Cas knew he was alone with him.

“Castiel. What was... how did you..?”

Taking a deep breath, Castiel reached out again, this time feeling himself almost solid within Samandriel’s mind. _I apologize for startling you._

“How are you doing this?”

_To be honest, I do not know. I imagine desperate times have pulled previously unknown abilities from me._ He paused. _Or perhaps it is only something I can do in this room, in this chair, bound as I am._

“Castiel, please believe I would free you if I could.”

Cas’s heart rose. _I do believe you._

He could feel Samandriel’s relief, almost see his shoulders shrug. “I do hope I have been doing an adequate job. I didn’t know what to say--”

_You have been doing fine, Samandriel_.

“--Arguing for the basic rights, the rights you established, free will. It would be different if you were a Soldier, Castiel. Then, I could not stand by what you said, because a Soldier is subject to his Garrison. But as a Seraphim, and as a chosen one--”

_Samandriel, please. I understand. You..._ Cas sighed. _By defending me, you are not going to damn yourself._

Cas could feel Samandriel’s stammer, his embarrassment, and he cut off any further argument. _I do not blame you for your feelings, Sam..._ He stopped himself. It wasn’t his place to give this angel a nickname. _...andriel. But in order to win this, you must know more._ He hesitated. _I’m afraid, some of what you might see... it could make you uncomfortable_.

Samandriel thought for a moment, then said quietly, “Does it have to do with the hunter?”

Cas nodded, then gasped and pulled back into himself, his strength suddenly spent. Re-accustomed to the idea of speaking, he tried to apologize, but sputtered against the gag as it freshly burned him, mixing with his saliva to acidic steam. He hung his head, surrendering again, when he jumped at a gentle touch on his shoulder.

“Castiel, you must rest now. Tomorrow, we shall fight them. Together.”

Samandriel disappeared. And Castiel sat alone, in the dark, and waited.

\---------------------

“Samandriel, I grow weary of this argument. You have said it before.”

“But it bears repeating, Raphael. And it needs to be repeated. The fundamental truth of this trial depends upon the weight of free will.”

“And this council waits to hear proof that the creature in question is deserving of it.”

Castiel stirred, took a breath, and breathed himself into Samandriel, whose eyes fluttered for a moment. Then, he said, “Is it--does the council agree that our Father made angels, our design’s purpose is, to love man?”

“Of course it does.”  
“And we were to worship man as greater than even our Father?”

“It is known.”

“And does the council concur that our much debated, chagrined, and prepared for Apocalypse hinged upon the ultimate betrayal of our Brother’s refusal to love mankind?”

“Samandriel, this is tedious.”

“I move, council, that this Angel before you has loved man more deeply, more truly, than any other Angel to have come before or will come after us.”

Castiel smiled inside Samandriel’s mind, his fingers lingering over the memories he had placed there, the seeds of the argument he had fostered. He could see Dean clearly before him, see his eyes searching his own. He had only hesitated a moment before including the memory of Dean’s kiss, Dean’s arms around him. Where he had expected shock from Samandriel, he received only compliance and acceptance. He listened with Samandriel’s ears as Raphael spoke. “Love of mankind does not warrant free will.”

“But it does make him an Angel. We have concurred that angels were made to love man.”

“Castiel loves the Winchesters only. You have no proof he has cared for anyone besides his own selfish need.”

And Castiel, angered, added forth the memory of Bobby. The memory of Bobby’s baseball cap and house. The memory of Christmas. The thought of Jody Mills, appearing at the door Christmas morning last year with something called a “casserole.” Meeting Jo and Ellen, their bravery and their kindness. He added the thought of Amelia, and Claire, and Jimmy Novak, the man who had given everything, literally everything, so that Castiel may be. He closed his eyes as he remembered so vividly Jimmy’s last words, last convictions.

Perhaps he had given too much, because for a moment, Samandriel’s voice cracked and wavered, his hands trembling. Castiel realized Samandriel had been speaking, telling the council each story as it was shown to him. Finally, he said, “I entreat you to look at the evidence of the care for his Vessel. Has any other Angel given his Vessel such regard? Given him choice until his very last moments?”

And amazingly, Raphael stopped. For a moment, he shifted in his seat, as the fellows on his council exchanged looks. Finally, he said. “By concurring that Castiel is a true Angel--”

“You must also concur his right to Free WIll.” When nothing more was said but whispers amongst the judges, Samandriel pressed forward, Castiel holding on and listening, breathing heavy with the strain of remaining. “It was concluded, it was voted upon that we should abide by our new Constitution--that all angels, that every Angel, has a right to  proclaim his own free will. I implore you that this Angel before you is not a Soldier to be ordered. He is a servant of his own heart. He has every right to make his own decisions. God has supported him--our own society has supported him. It is _known_.”

Castiel shuddered, and pulled into himself at last, feeling a cold sweat upon his brow. He heard with his own ears as Raphael, having whispered to his fellows, returned his voice to the room. “We will debate on what you have said, Samandriel. And we will inform you of our decision tomorrow.”

“Decision? But--I--”

“That was your final argument, was it not? Or have you something further to say? May I add that you have already thoroughly educated us on the principles of our new Constitution, the Apocalypse, and the very art of Free Will. I have beyond exhausted my patience. And...” Castiel could almost feel his eyes turn on him. “I grow bored of this torture.”

Cas felt the flutter of wings around him, and tried his hardest to send comfort and confidence to Samandriel. You did well, he wanted to tell him, but he had no strength for it. After a moment of complete silence, Samandriel placed a hand upon Cas’s shoulder, and then he too left. So Castiel would wait.

He did not have to wait long.

Soon, too soon, he felt the presence of another join him. But the voice was unexpected.

“Castiel, Castiel. What a delightful mess you’ve got yourself in.”

Castiel tried to speak and regretted it, gagging against the bind. The old, familiar voice filled in for his attempts. “Yes, yes, it’s me. I know--I take it from your silence you are completely stunned.”

_Balthasar_. Balthasar, was here? Wasn’t he--

“I thought I’d sneak back in from banishment. All very kosher now, happened while you away, off galavanting with your boyfriend. How is that, by the way, good as it sounds?”

Castiel could feel himself blush and he heard Balthasar’s laugh. “Perhaps I might have to try it as well, someday. There are some spectacular human specimens.”

There was a pause in which Balthasar was no doubt picturing said human specimens. Castiel thought on whether or not he should feed himself into Balthasar’s mind--he eventually decided no. For several reasons.

“Anyway old chap, I’m here on very important business. They’re not gonna go for it.”

Castiel lifted his head, and Balthasar nodded. “Yeah, yeah. Not that surprising really. I mean, you had a good case and all, but... let’s face it. They hate you. Or at least, the big man hates you and if our resident Archangel hates you then the jury is out, I’m afraid.”

Castiel was silent. He felt a hand clap on his shoulder, and Balthasar came to perch on the arm of the chair Cas sat in. “So, I suppose you’re wondering why I’m even here telling you all this. And no, it’s not because I’m macabre or sadist. It’s because, dear boy, I rather like you.” He got up. Castiel could hear him pacing the room. “I mean, Gabriel and I made rebellion and banishment something to be frowned upon, but you made it exciting. You made being something different fabulous. And if I were less of an amazing individual I might resent you for it. But I am astonishingly generous. So here’s what’s going to happen, Castiel.

“I’m going to get you what you want--mostly. That is, I will get you everything I can. It’s not perfect, but it’ll do.

“So--what do you say, old chap?”

\---------------------

The following morning, the tribunal assembled, and Samandriel fluttered to Castiel’s side. Gently pressing at the back of Samandriel’s mind, Castiel peered through his eyes to see the gathered Angels; there were only four. He questioned, Samandriel shrugged, and suddenly Balthasar appeared.

“Sorry I’m late, boys. Never can get the time right on these things. If I recall, wasn’t I late for my own hearing, Raphael?”

Raphael did not respond. He glared down at Balthasar as he joined the judges in the seat immediately to Raphael’s right. “What are you doing here.”

“Oh, didn’t you hear? Abraxos recused himself. Something about personal bias, whatsits? Anyway, I’ve gladly stepped into his place.”

“I did not approve.”

“Please, darling, wouldn’t have wanted to bother you about something as simple as a recusal! Love what you’ve done with the trial system, by the by. Torture and chains--it’s all very Old Testament, wouldn’t you say?” The judges shifted, suddenly very self conscious in their seats, and Balthasar grinned, leaning forward. “Anyway: let’s get this thing done, shall we?”

And Balthasar looked into Samandriel’s eyes, and Castiel swore he could see him there. With a nod, and a small wink, Balthasar sat back, and Raphael counted the votes.

\--------------------

Cas stopped speaking. He had, by this time, completely sank into Dean’s side. Now, he rested his head on Dean’s shoulder, seemingly tired once again. “And that,” he said, his voice grittier than usual from all the speaking, “Is how I came to be here, in your home, just before Christmas.”

“No, wait--” Sam held up a hand. He and Bobby had grabbed chairs and now sat close. Sam was sitting backwards in his, leaning over intently. “I don’t get it--what did they say?”

Castiel had been slightly preoccupied with a button on Dean’s jacket, which was subsequently distracting Dean. He fought the urge to pull Castiel back to him when the Angel stood and walked to the tree.

“Balthasar couldn’t get me my freedom. By Angel order, a Seraphim must serve. But he was able to get me what I needed.” He turned around and smiled at them. “My servitude has been exchanged.”

“So...” Sam said, rolling his head to pull the answer out. “What?”

“I have always considered myself your Guardian. Both of you,” he nodded shyly to Dean. “Now, I am officially the Winchester’s servant.”

Sam stared, open mouthed, as Bobby slowly shook his head, trying to make sense of it all. “Wow, Cas,” Sam said after a moment. “That’s...”

“Yes, it is, isn’t it?” Cas smiled, and looked to Dean, pride shining in his eyes. “And, I have something--” Cas fished in his pocket, and after a moment, pulled something out. “--To give to you.” He opened his hand. In it sat a crystal almost the size of his palm, looped on a leather band, clearly meant to be slipped around a neck. “It’s very symbolic. You don’t have to wear it of course.” He hesitated, then after a moment, approached Dean. “I’d like you to have it.”

Dean blinked at him, then stared at the crystal. It was uneven, its many different arms branching out in clear, quartz angles. He reached for it, then stopped. “Is... is this your Grace?”

“No, Dean. My Grace,” Castiel gestured to his sternum. “Remains here. But this is... for lack of a better term, my bindings.”

“It’s a _leash_?” Dean stared, flabbergasted. “Cas, I don’t understand. You were fighting for your freedom.”

“And I have it.”

Dean shook his head. “Cas, this... this isn’t freedom. You’re--it’s like you were sold to me or something.”

Cas bobbed his head. “I understand your country has a tortured history with slavery. But please know that my servitude to you isn’t the same thing.”

Dean stood up, cupped his hand around Cas’s palm, and pressed the necklace back to his chest. “Cas, I don’t want it.”

“...What?”

“I don’t want your free will, Cas. I don’t want to be in charge of you, I want you to have your own life. Come and go as you please, be--just be who you want to be.”

Cas looked down at their joined hands between them, clearly hurt. “Dean, you don’t understand... I can’t...”

“Fine then.” Dean grabbed the necklace and put it about his neck. “I accept this, and now,” He took it off and placed it around Castiel. “I give it to you.”

Cas stared at him. He looked down at the crystal, toying with it for a moment. His hands shook, and his eyes were wide and unblinking. “...Can you _do_ that?”

“I don’t see why not.”

Sam and Bobby smiled at him, and Dean’s eyes were filled with such warmth as he looked down at Castiel. There was a long moment in which Castiel looked at the crystal about his neck, and held it in shaking hands. Then, with quiet resolution, Cas slowly turned around and walked to the tree. Slowly, he took the leather band from around his neck; the crystal seemed to sing on its throng, capturing the white lights and bouncing them about the room. Carefully, Castiel looped the string around a branch, and hung it there.

Dean’s hands clenched at his side, trembling, and he felt his heart burst in his chest. He breathed heavy and deep, staring at Cas and needing so much to be with him that it hurt. It was as if Sam could read his mind, because very quietly, Sam stood and motioned to Bobby, whispering, “Hey, Bobby, didn’t you say you had some, uh, last minute gifts to get or something?”

“Huh? Oh--” Bobby looked between Dean and Cas. “Right.”

Sam nodded, glanced at Dean with a smile, then crept out the front door, Bobby only hesitating a moment to squeeze Dean’s arm before following him. The door shut softly. Steeling himself, Dean stepped up behind Cas and put his hands on Cas’s shoulders. They shook beneath his palms, and Dean leaned down, nestling into Cas’s hair. After a moment, Cas turned, eyes swimming, already over-flowing. He lifted a hand to his own cheek and pulled it away, staring at the wetness he discovered there. “I wasn’t aware I could cry, Dean. Is this because I’m free?”

“No,” Dean said, his voice husky. “It’s because you’re happy.”

He wrapped his arms around Cas, felt Cas’s fingers wind themselves in his hair, and Dean kissed him soundly, pulling him closer and closer as they swayed together, open mouthed beside the Christmas tree.


	10. Saturn Nights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean and Cas missed each other. So they make up for it.

Fuck he had missed him. Dean had missed Cas so much; more than he had even let himself realize. They slammed their lips together with such desperation that it was almost bruising. He and Cas were sucking and biting, tongues completely messy in their desire.  Dean yanked down Cas’s trench-coat, tugging it roughly away from the Angel’s wrists when it wouldn’t budge. Cas returned his hands to where they had been, running them up underneath Dean’s shirt and lifting it, exploring and dancing across the skin he discovered there. Ducking his head, Cas nipped and bit at Dean’s nipples, chest, and stomach, sucking with such urgency he was sure to leave a mark.

Dean grunted, the cloth of Cas’s button-up fisted in his hand, pulled from the back of his pants, revealing the delicious skin on Cas’s back. He ran a finger up Cas’s exposed spine. “Cas--upstairs.”

Castiel wasn’t listening. He returned his mouth to Dean’s, then licked at his ear, nibbling its lobe. Dean groaned, then pulled himself together again. “Cas, come on--”

He tugged at Cas’s hands, turning around to lead him up the stairs. They had made it to the top of the landing when suddenly, Cas pinned him. Dean, chest pressed into the wall, angled his head to the side and peered back at Cas. But his eyes fluttered shut as Cas, nose pressed against Dean’s ear, leaned himself, completely hard, into Dean. Cas’s hands came around to dig under the front waistband of Dean’s jeans and boxers, fingers delicately maneuvering as he pulled Dean’s hips backwards into his.

Dean braced his hands up to the wall as he felt Cas thrust slowly against him, listening to Cas’s soft groan in his ear. Fumbling slightly, Cas’s fingers worked to undo Dean’s button. The zipper slipped easily downward, and Dean felt Cas’ warm hands slide into full contact with his dick.

Holy fuck, he was getting a hand job on the stairs. Shit. Dean breathed heavily, rolling his head back to rest on Cas’s shoulder, once again feeling the urgent press of Cas’s erection against him. Cas’s fingers weren’t moving in a specific rhythm, they were just exploring, rubbing gently, closing around the shaft, twisting and lifting daintily against the tip. Dean groaned, “You’re a fucking tease, Cas.”

Cas released Dean’s cock and buried his fingers in Dean’s hips, yanking him backwards and rolling into him. His voice was gritty and dark. “I could take you right here, Dean.”

Holy shit, was Cas talking dirty to him? Incredulous, Dean opened his eyes and slowly turned around to look at him face on. They stared at each other for a moment, air crackling around them, and then Dean grabbed Cas and pulled him in, kissing him hard. They slammed against each other, grinding with no stability, swaying backwards until Dean once again thumped into the wall. They parted as Dean gasped out, “Lube in the bedroom.”

Cas nodded. They started towards it, then came together again--separated, then returned. Dean was pushing Cas up against the wall, then Cas pushed Dean. A trail of their clothing followed them like a cartoon, Dean actually ripping off Cas’s shirt to get to him, buttons falling everywhere, getting trod over and tripped on as Dean kicked open the bedroom door.

A twin bed. A mother fucking twin bed, and his brain was registering it like it was some kind of surprise. Well, damn. And it wasn’t like they were gonna sneak in and use Bobby’s queen--this would have to do.

Cas shut the door and approached again from behind, hands running down Dean’s now bare chest, finding Dean’s boxers and tugging them down roughly. Dean reached around him blindly, felt Cas’s underwear, and tried to do the same. With Cas’s assistance, they eventually clasped naked against each other, Dean’s back molding into Cas’s chest, Dean feeling the insistent press of Cas’s erect cock against him.

Dean’s heart was pounding. He knew exactly what direction this was going in. If he was honest, he was terrified. But if he were even more honest, he was fucking hard as shit at the thought of it. His hands were shaking, which was stupid. Cas was mouthing hot at the back of his neck, kissing down Dean’s shoulder blades, then back up to his arms, leaving not a trace untouched as he pulled Dean’s hand up in a graceful arch to his mouth. Dean’s jaw dropped at he felt Cas pop a finger into his mouth, suckling it gently, swallowing it’s entirety. “Holy shit, Cas...”

Cas did not say anything; he just repeated the process on the other side, allowing his free hand to travel up Dean’s chest. It rested there, a gentle pressure against Dean’s sternum. Then, very slowly, Cas stilled, and stopped what he was doing altogether. He simply wrapped both arms around Dean and held him close, head leaning against Dean’s shoulder. They swayed gently. Dean shut his eyes, mumbling. “Cas, what’s going on?”

Cas squeezed him lightly. “Your heart... It’s beating very fast.”

Dean swallowed. “Yeah?”

“...You are scared.”

Dean opened his eyes. A thousand denials swam to his lips, and his muscles tensed on instinct to spring away. But he didn’t. Instead, he slowly turned himself in Cas’s arms. He looked down and gestured at his very alert penis. “Does _this_ look scared, Cas?”

Cas’s eyes darted down, his lips parting hungrily and crooking into a half-smile. “Not exactly.”

Dean leaned into him, taking Cas’s dick in his hand. Thumbing down the pre-cum that burst forth, Dean used it as lubrication as he pressed their cocks together, sliding his hand up and down the two of them, thrusting his hips forward. Cas’s head fell back and his eyes fluttered. “Dean...”

Dean, still stroking them together, leaned over to nip at the exposed throat before him, licking his way up to Cas’s mouth and opening it with his own. But Cas was still hesitant beneath his lips, so after a moment, Dean pulled himself to Cas’s ear and whispered into it. “Fucking take me, Cas.”

That was all the assurance Cas had needed. Like a vice, his hands were suddenly gripping Dean’s elbows, his mouth returning and seeking Dean’s own. He mimicked Dean’s thrusts, his cock throbbing in Dean’s grasp. In a moment, Dean had released them with a grunt, and he was pushed backwards onto the bed.

His legs were dangling, knees bent at the edge, and he scooted as far back as he could until his head pushed the pillows against the headrest. Cas’s tongue was fucking everywhere. The attention he had payed to Dean’s back was now being payed to his chest. Dean’s arms lifted above his head, slamming clumsily into the headboard as Cas descended over him, flattening his weight over Dean, notching their dicks against each other. Dean spread his legs and Cas rutted against him, their hips colliding forcefully. Dean, opening his mouth into a moan, reached down to grab Cas’s ass, fighting for more friction, pushing at him harder. He whispered assent in Cas’s ear, half unconscious of what he was saying. “Fuck me, Cas. I missed you so fucking much. Fuck me, please.”

In two seconds Cas had flipped him over. Dean’s mind was buzzing with arousal and panic, and he pulled his knees up, legs spread, to support himself, as he leaned over the side of the bed to find his bag. Cas was kissing up and down his back and ass, running his hands against the back of Dean’s legs, his fingers trailing patterns to the soft patches of skin on the inside of his thighs, once again and apparently always a tease, whispering past his cock, his balls, pushing gently against his hole, then retreating. Unable to think properly, Dean sat back to pull the bag up to the bed with them, almost slamming into Cas’s chest, taking him by surprise. But he was soon moaning softly against Dean’s neck, leaning into Dean’s back and running his fingers up and down Dean’s chest. He bit at Dean’s shoulder as Dean dumped the contents of the bag out, finding and revealing the small bottle of lubricant he had stowed in his darkest jeans.

Dean’s panic quieted as he looked at the bottle and handed it back to Cas, who took it gently. Dean made to move back to his former position, but Cas stayed him. “I like this...” he whispered, holding onto Dean tightly. “Don’t you?”

To further emphasize this, he moved his teasing hand down to Dean’s cock, thumbing at it gently, circling it’s tip with one finger. Dean moaned, head lolling back, and then he snapped his eyes open as Cas, with a lubed hand, pressed at his entrance.

Dean did not know how in the hell Cas had opened the bottle of lube with one hand, or how he succeeded in preparing his fingers. But one was pushing at him fervently, waiting for the muscle to relax. Dean took a deep breath, widened his legs a little more, and exhaled as he felt his sphincter give and accept the new presence.

Dean’s hands grabbed at Cas’s knees, nestled behind his own, his eyes shutting as he experienced Cas’s finger moving inside of him, in and out. Invasive and arousing, he leaned forward slightly as Cas pushed it deeper, extracted, and then returned with two instead of one. Dean bit his lip, concentrating on breathing, when suddenly something felt different. “Woah.”

He sat up straight and looked around at Cas, who was staring between them, pupils dilated. He stopped his motions and looked at Dean. Wickedly, he retreated his fingers and pressed again, staring at Dean’s dropped mouth.

“Is that it?” Cas asked, his voice rough.

Dean wanted to say “That’s it.” He wanted to say “Yes” or nod or smile even, but Cas rubbed it again and all he said was “Ung” or something graceless like that. Dean felt Cas leave, then return with three fingers, and Dean inhaled at the stretch and moaned at the pull; he moved himself on Cas’s hand, legs working him up and down slowly, experimenting with angles until it was hit every time. Dean’s jaw hung lax, and the breathing ran ragged in his throat, his childhood bed creaking underneath him as he bounced there, gently.

And then suddenly he was empty and very unsatisfied. Cas had pulled away. But Dean only had to wait a moment to hear the pop of the lube’s cap again, to feel Cas pull him close. “Are you ready?” was the soft whisper in his ear.

And Dean nodded. “Hell yes.”

Castiel took him at his word, and Dean felt himself split open, a hot iron of pleasure rooted itself up inside of him, sliding out and pushing in again, deeper. Dean threw his arms up behind him, grabbing onto Cas and leaning his head against Cas’s neck and shoulder. Cas’s hands were wrapped around Dean’s lower back, thumbs toying with the arch of Dean’s spine. With his ear so close to Cas’s mouth, Dean could hear the soft sounds escaping from him, growing louder and less controlled with each thrust.

Dean kissed his jaw line, fucking fascinated with the way Cas felt inside of him, stretching him and rubbing against his tight walls. The pressure was enormous--Cas was fucking enormous, and with a gentle lean, Dean allowed himself to fall forward to rest on his hands, and Cas’s thrusts suddenly began to nail it. “Oh, shit, Cas--”

Dean dropped his head, realizing, as he listened to the sound of his ass slapping against Cas, that Cas was thrusting inside him to the hilt. Dean felt out of body, completely mad, as pleasure caused him to cry out again, bite down on his lip, and tip himself down further into the sheets. His fists grabbed and twisted them. He leaned his head back and forth as Cas went faster and faster--it was like Cas was reading Dean’s goddamn mind or something because Dean fucking wanted it that way. He wanted Cas’s fingertips to dig into his hips, to pucker the skin there, to pull him closer and closer. Fuck, fuck, _fuck_ \--it was a moment before Dean realized he was saying it, the air passing almost unheard from his lips, “Fuck yes, fuck, fuck...”

He was close. He was close without his cock even being touched and he couldn’t handle that. He pushed himself up slightly, trying hard to look back at Cas, to see him. Jesus, he wanted to see him. He could make out the sweat-slicked chest, the muscles in his abdomen as he slammed deeper and deeper--like how was it possible to go deeper and deeper each time Dean could not understand. Dean needed to see him.

“Cas..?” He said loudly, the one syllable drawn out and hiccuped by Cas’s impacts. Cas stilled, and for the first time since he entered Dean, he spoke. Dean thought his voice was almost unrecognizable with lust.

“Yes?”

“Need to see you.” It was all he could get out. It was all he needed to say.

In a second Cas was out of him, helping Dean to turn, helping to swipe the pile of once folded laundry Dean had dumped there off the bed, helping to stack the pillows under Dean. Cas grabbed the back of Dean’s knees, pushed forward, and folded Dean into a manner he hadn’t known he could assume.

Now Dean could see him. Now Cas was swimming above him, bracing himself and maneuvering, rubbing his slicked cock against Dean’s, pressing its tip against Dean’s hole, then pushing it in, and in, and _in_. Dean’s walls gave way, and the two of them resumed motion, eye to eye. Eventually one of them would shut his eyes in pleasure, or tilt his head back in a moan, but now they could kiss. And they did so, longingly and tenderly.

Cas leaned down and pressed his forehead against Dean’s, retreating out of him almost completely before slamming back down, eliciting a cry from him. Cas hit Dean’s prostate again and again and again, sliding his cock against it until Dean thought he was seeing stars. Holy fuck he was going to come like this. He was going to fucking come with Cas inside of him, looking at Cas, kissing Cas.

Cas was whispering again, his eyes were squeezing shut. “Dean... Dean...” Just Dean’s name, over and over, said like a goddamn prayer, moaned out with complete abandon. Cas reached a hand down between them and gripped Dean’s cock. The tease of the moments before was now gone. Cas was dirty and quick, stroking him solidly with his still slick fingers. Dean snapped his eyes open and stared up, feeling the build within him, his jaw dropping, and he moaned, “Cas...”

Cas kissed him, and leaned back only enough to say, “ _Come_.”

And Dean obeyed. Dean lost his fucking mind. He was shouting something or nothing, feeling himself convulse around Cas’s cock, feeling himself spill out and up over their stomachs and chests, knowing his hips were thrusting madly as he came and came and came, spiraling into nothingness as Cas pounded into him.

Cas came moments after him. Dean held Cas’s face in his hands, watched the veins go in Cas’s neck, listened as his silent scream became sound, and Dean told him “Yes, yes, yes,” with every last thrust Cas could give him.

They collapsed into each other, shuddering. Cas pumped a few more times and Dean took him, pulling him close, breathing heavy at his ear. He didn’t want to let go. He didn’t want Cas to move anywhere. For the first time in... was it ever? Dean felt complete. Like he was something whole. Like his life didn’t matter anymore because Cas was actually his.

Dean opened his eyes to the ceiling, remembering what had happened in the living room, what now ornamented the Christmas tree. Cas was Dean’s, and Cas was his own. They were here together because they both fucking wanted to be. Dean’s heart burst with incredulity, and he grunted slightly when Cas slowly pulled out, suddenly aware of a soreness and pain he hadn’t felt while Cas was in him.

Cas was lifting himself away, but Dean gripped him tightly. “Stay,” he whispered.

Cas, looking down at him, kissed Dean’s cheek, his eyes, then kissed his mouth. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He shifted slightly to the side, then lay back down over Dean, their limbs akimbo and tangling. There was no need for a blanket. Dean felt completely warm with Cas there. He buried his fingers in Cas’s hair, wrapped his arms around him, and kissed himself into oblivion.

\---------------------------

Dean stared at Cas; the angel’s eyes were closed. The clock on the wall was ticking loudly, the only other sound in the room besides their breathing. Dean’s eyes flicked to it and marked the time, dimly lit by the afternoon sun. He sighed, crooked his head to the side again, and watched the angel.

He feared that he had pushed Cas too far. That perhaps Cas hadn’t been healed enough for any type of exertion. Dean feared another six days rest and recoup simply because he couldn’t contain his lust for one more day. But everything was soothed when Cas’s eyes slid liquidly open, sat hazy for a moment, then focused on Dean. Castiel smiled and stretched his arms, tossing a hand lazily across Dean, who turned on his side to face him. “Did you sleep?”

Cas, still smiling, nodded slowly. “I did.”

Dean’s brow creased as he frowned into the pillow. “I shouldn’t have rushed you.”

Cas blinked at him. “I believe that I had an equal desire for you.” He paused, then added silkily. “Still do.”

“Cas...” Dean shook his head, trying not to smile, but failing. Cas continued, holding up a wrist to Dean, pointing to it.

“The lines are almost faded.”

Dean peered closely. What had been bruising red welts just days before had now healed into a thin white line. He flicked his eyes back up. “That’s not the only thing that needs to heal, Cas.”

Cas’s gaze fell slightly, and he tucked his wrists into his chest, pulling himself closer to Dean, wrapping a leg around him. Dean opened his arms, enfolding Cas to him and running a hand through his hair as Cas spoke. “I will heal with time, Dean.”

Dean gritted his jaw, and his hand stilled in its motions. He blinked heavy against the pillow, swallowing hard. “Cas, there’s somethin’ I gotta tell you...”

“Mmm?” Cas sounded half asleep as he dug himself closer, the tip of his nose just hitting Dean’s throat.

“Cas I... I gave up on you.” Dean squeezed his eyes shut, fighting the urge to hold Castiel to him like a vice, to keep him from running away, to keep him from leaving as soon as he heard the truth and processed it. “I’m sorry, but I did. I thought you weren’t coming back, I thought--I thought you didn’t understand. I gave up on you.”

Dean took a deep, shuddering breath, and allowed his arms to loosen. If Cas wanted to run away, he had every right to. If Cas was angry and wanted nothing more to do with him, he had every right to that too.

Castiel stilled, then took a deep breath. “No, you didn’t.”

Dean’s eyes snapped wide. “Huh?”

Cas was again burying himself deeper into Dean, snuggling him and nuzzling into the place where Dean’s neck met his chest. “You didn’t give up on me.”

“But, I _did_ , Cas. You can ask Sam. I thought you weren’t coming back, that you didn’t care--and there I was downstairs, hearing what you went through, and I just--”

“Does it make it better for you? To feel guilty?”

“Cas, I fucked up!”

“You promised you wouldn’t feel guilty.”

“About what _you_ went through, not about me being a dick.” By this point Dean had sat up slightly, staring down at Cas, whose head rested against the pillows, looking up at Dean. “I think I’m entitled to feel like shit about that.”

Cas sighed and lifted a hand to Dean’s arm, running his fingers there, watching as he did so. “Dean,” he said finally. “You didn’t give up on me.”

Angrily, Dean spat out, “Oh, really? And how would you know?”

Cas shrugged, and said simply, “Because you bought lube.”

“I--” Dean started, then stared, anger whistling away. “What?”

“You bought lubricant. You didn’t have it before, you have it now.” Cas sat up and kissed Dean’s shoulder. “You wanted to be prepared, ergo: you thought I was coming back.”

Dean, trying desperately to ignore the teeth against his skin that were nibbling their way up his neck, shook his head. “But Cas, I _didn’t_ think...”

“Very well then, let’s say that you... _had faith_ that I would come back.” Cas popped a sweet kiss against Dean’s chin, then tilted his head back and looked up at him. Dean was dumbfounded. Cas smiled at him mischievously. “Unless, of course, you bought that lube for someone else...”

“Shut up.” Dean leaned down and kissed him, and they spent several blissful moments embracing, until they heard the car-door slams outside the window and remembered, almost too late, that their clothing was still littering the hallway.


	11. Christmas in the Room

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Final chapter; best Christmas ever.

Christmas this year was witness to a lot of firsts: the first real Christmas tree, the first stockings, the first gay-romance. It also felt like it was the first time Dean had ever seen Bobby with his baseball cap off, and it felt like the first time Dean had ever seen Sam drink eggnog. As Sam poured more whiskey into his cup, Dean realized he had forgotten Sam actually liked the stuff. He didn’t know how he could forget a thing like that.

This was also their first Christmas to feature an actual home-cooked Christmas dinner, that someone had spent hours in the kitchen preparing for them. That someone was Bobby, and Cas.

Granted, they weren’t so much dining on turkey as they were dining on chili. And granted, Dean wasn’t drinking a toast with wine, but with a beer. But as he was smiling at Sam, clinking his drink against Bobby’s, and locking eyes with Cas, holding his hand under the table, Dean knew it was the most sincere toasting he’d ever cheered. _To the coming year_ , and he meant it.

He meant it even more when Cas slipped away and then returned with Dean’s “Christmas present.”

_Pie_.

Cas had made apple fucking pie. And it may have looked like shit but it tasted like fucking heaven.

“When did you do this?” Dean was barely intelligible around a mouthful of awesomeness.

Cas shrugged. “You and Sam were watching _the game_.”

Dean smiled. He loved the way Cas said “the game,” like it was some epic, once-in-a-lifetime event. He spooned more home-made whipped cream on top of his third slice, reached across the table, and plucked the ice cream out of Sam’s hands.

“Hey--!”

“Hey yourself, it’s my gift.”

Best Christmas ever.

After Dean had eaten everything and more, he loosened his belt, popped the button on his pants, and settled on the couch with Cas. They leaned into each other, watching the fire in the fireplace and half-listening to Sam and Bobby chatting together in the kitchen. Dean blinked sleepily over Cas’s head, his eyes alighting on the crystal hanging on the tree. It seemed to shimmer and sway as if it had a life of its own, bouncing the firelight around the room. 

“What are we gonna do with that thing?”

Cas was staring at their intertwined hands. He looked up. “Hmm?”

Dean nodded to the tree. “Your... whatever it is. It’s an ornament now.”

After considering it for a moment, Cas hummed and nestled his head back into Dean’s shoulder. “I suppose I should try to imbibe it, to truly make it my own.”

“What?” Dean craned his head around to look at him. “Imbibe? I thought you said it was just symbolic.”

“For you it would have been. For an Angel to possess it, it’s a very real thing.” He sighed. “Truth be told, however, I like it just where it is.”

Dean smiled. “Well, trees come down at the end of Christmas, Cas.”

Cas paused, and reflected. “It’s sad,” he said eventually, voice muffled against the cloth of Dean’s shirt as he kissed his shoulder. “That Christmas ends.”

Dean blinked for a moment, then squeezed Cas’s hand harder and pulled him closer. “Yeah,” he said simply, closing his eyes.

Yesterday, in the early evening, Dean had stood on the porch in the grey light with Sam. They’d clicked their beers together and stood shoulder to shoulder, at first not saying a word. They just leaned on the railing, every so often picking up the vague sounds of Bobby and Cas conversing through the window. After a moment, Sam tossed a glance Dean’s direction.

“So... You guys have a nice time today?”

Dean tried very hard not to blush. Earlier, he had made a very determined effort to hide his consternation and total panic as he and Cas strolled down into the living room to join Sam and Bobby, having just scrambled to pick up all of their clothes and dress themselves at the same time. (Dean remembered the look on Cas’s face when he tried to fasten his button-up and discovered there weren’t any buttons. Needless to say, he had had to substitute one of Dean’s shirts instead.) Dean also thought he had been doing an excellent job of not walking any differently, although his body was still trying to adjust to what it had just experienced. They had all participated in a completely normal conversation about something boring, and Dean had assumed after that Sam would be a gentlemen and not poke at the situation. Clearly he was wrong.

Wordlessly, he took a swig of his beer, and waited for Sam to drop the annoying smile Dean could see out of the corner of his eye. Instead, Sam held a hand out in front of him. He looked down--sitting in the palm of Sam’s hand was one of the buttons to Cas’s ruined shirt.

“Rolled into the bathroom.” Sam’s lips were twitching. “Quite the adventurous little button, to do that all on its own.”

Pursing his lips, Dean grabbed it irritably as Sam lost his battle with mirth. “Very funny, Sam.”

“No, actually, what was funny was Bobby finding Cas’s trench-coat on the living-room floor.”

Dean’s eyes grew wide. Right. The coat. That’s what they’d forgotten to pick up. He stood for a moment, fighting for some sense of dignity, but Sam’s laughter won out in the end. Dean eventually smiled, and then he and Sam were outright giggling like school-boys. Dean wiped his eyes, shaking his head. “I blame you for this, you know.”

“I take responsibility gladly.”

They slowly grew quiet again, quiet enough to hear the first falls of snow hit the ground, to hear the soft sizzle as the flakes popped against the grass and decided they wanted to stay there. Dean looked up, his jaw dropping slowly. His voice was low and heavy as he said, almost to himself, “Snow on Christmas Eve... How ‘bout that.”

He could feel Sam’s eyes on him, and suddenly he couldn’t bear to meet them. He struggled under the empathic gaze, until he finally responded to the unspoken question. “It’s just... _where is it_.”

“Where’s what?”

Sam’s voice was calming, soothing, and Dean leaned on it. He took a shaking breath and answered, “The other shoe. Where is it, Sammy? When’s it gonna fall?”

He turned, met Sam’s eyes, and almost immediately regretted doing so. The warmth he found there made him swallow and clench his beer tightly. Sam opened his mouth to speak, but Dean cut him off. “I’m serious Sammy. Look at us. Look at this.”

He flung his arms wide, taking in the snow, the house, the lights of the Christmas tree visible through the window. As if on cue, Bobby laughed, and Dean nodded his head. “Freakin’ snow? On Christmas? And, here _we_ are, even _having_ a Christmas? And then... and...”

“And Cas,” Sam supplied, when Dean’s voice failed him.

Dean swallowed and nodded. He stared out, watching as the flakes began to become a blizzard. “It’s a fuckin’ Hallmark card, Sammy. I mean I’m... I’m...” He choked on the word. “I feel _good_ , Sam. What the hell is that about.” He shook his head and chucked back the rest of his drink. “So where’s the other shoe.”

Sam had leaned on the railing, shoving his hands into his pockets and looking at Dean. Dean waited, watching the mists curl away from Sam’s mouth as, eventually, he began to speak. “Dean... our fucking _lives_ are the other shoe.”

Dean shook his head. “Maybe for you.”

“No, seriously. I mean it. Dean, it’s not about whether or not we like what we do--you obviously do. What I mean is...” Sam fished for the words. “Every day, any day, could be our last. Every day we risk our lives. We could locate a job and die tomorrow doing it--hell, a demon could knock on our door tonight and we could be done, Dean.” Sam paused, then looked at him seriously. “ _That’s_ the other shoe. That will always be the other shoe. Don’t you dare feel guilty about being happy. Just be it.”

Dean stared at him, and he found himself unable to say a word. He chewed on his lip as he looked down to his beer. “I should... take this inside, and toss it.”

“ _Recycle_ it,” corrected Sam. “And I’ll take it for you.” He plucked the bottle from Dean after downing his own, grinning. “I’ll send your _boyfriend_ out here to join you.”

He stalked away with a giggle, and Dean tossed back over his shoulder, “You don’t have to say boyfriend like that, you know.”

Sam peeked his head back outside. “Booooyfriiiiiend.”

Dean bit his cheeks, trying not to smile. “Bitch.”

“Jerk.”

They locked eyes for a moment, silent words stretching the space between. Then Sam disappeared, and Dean could hear him calling for Cas. It was only a moment before the angel slipped through the door and looked around, smiling. “Hello, Dean.”

“Hey.”

Cas’s hair was still a little mussed from their earlier escapades, and the trench-coat looked even more oddly-fitted with Dean’s shirt underneath, a grey V-Neck that was only slightly too big for Cas. His shoulders filled it out nicely, and its color was doing something to his eyes that made Dean take a quick breath. Cas looked adorable--he looked _handsome_. And even after all the intimacy they had achieved, Dean was having a hard time fathoming that he was thinking or was able to think these things that, only three months ago, would have made him laugh. Of course now he knew everything. He knew he’d been thinking it all along, just not realizing it. Still, in this moment, reaching out and taking Cas’s hands into his own, he felt somehow shy. He drew him in and kissed him timidly, marveling at the idea that this was something he could do now, whenever he saw him. But Cas’s soft lips beneath him were an encouraging thing, and Dean opened his mouth gently. He felt stupidly warm--it blossomed out from his chest, and it was with much reluctance that he pulled away. “It’s snowing...” he whispered.

Cas smiled at him. “I can see that.”

Dean tugged him around and wrapped himself behind Cas, pressing his lips into Cas’s hair and rocking them slowly, feeling the rumble in Cas’s chest as he spoke. “I don’t understand the general fascination with snow. It is simply frozen water.”

Dean laughed to himself, burying his head deeper into Cas’s hair, closing his eyes and squeezing him. “It’s pretty.”

“I...” Cas tilted his head. “It is, perhaps, a more aesthetically appealing landscape now.” He paused. “It certainly covers up the detritus in Bobby’s yard.”

Dean didn’t say anything. He just peeked out from behind Cas’s shoulder, breathed him in, and watched the world around them.

They stood together, frozen in the beauty, until Cas, with a mischievous and wanting sort of moan in the back of his throat, turned in Dean’s arms to seek more. He wrapped his arms around Dean and tipped his head back, pulling Dean down and kissing him deeply. After a few moments of stumbling about on the porch, they decided Cas should transport them to the bedroom instead of trying to sneak back through the house.

Learning to make love quietly was an adventure they took on twice last night.

Dean stirred on the couch, taking a deep breath and opening his eyes, shaking away the reminiscing. Cas had spoken, and Dean had not understood him. “Hmm?”

“I have one more gift for you, Dean,” Cas repeated. “If you’d like it, that is...”

Dean sat up, looking at Cas seriously. “Did you... did you bake me _two_ pies?”

Cas’s eyes widened, and then he smiled broadly, almost laughing. “No, Dean. I’m sorry.”

“Oh.” Dean sat back. “That was good pie.”

“I’m glad you liked it.” Cas hesitated, then glanced back at the kitchen where Sam and Bobby were laughing loudly, pouring more whiskey into their eggnog. Cas blinked at his hands, then looked up at Dean. “May I take you somewhere, Dean?”

Frowning his confusion, Dean nodded. Cas stood to grab Dean’s coat, bringing it back to him. Dean put it on, walking the few steps into the kitchen. “We’ll be right back.”

Sam looked up. “Where you goin’?”

Dean shrugged. “No idea.”

Cas’s hand pressed against his shoulder, and the kitchen vanished. Dean’s eyes were forced to rapidly adjust to sudden darkness, and he blinked them fervently. The sound of the ocean seemed to echo around him. He spun around, looking for it, but instead discovered the bright lights of a city stretched out beneath him, far below.

“The Rock of Gibraltar,” said Cas next to him. Dean’s jaw dropped, and he quickly balanced himself against the wind that whipped around him, threatening to lift him and take him with it. He felt Cas reach out a steadying hand to him, lacing their fingers together. “I will have to take you back here sometime when it’s daylight.”

“It’s alright,” Dean said. The Rock of Gibraltar on Christmas night, and the whole town was aglow for him. He smiled softly. “Always wanted to come here.”

He turned to look at Cas. The city below was casting light enough, and Dean could now make out his face in the darkness. Cas squeezed his hand gently, and they stood together silently in the night, breathing in the cold salt air. Another gust buffeted them, and Dean, in spite of himself, shivered. Without hesitation, Cas gathered him up, and Dean pressed his hands up to Cas’s chest, bunching his fingers against the heat there. “How are you so friggin’ warm?”

“Angelic energy.”

Dean grinned into Cas’s shoulder. “Knew it.”

After a moment, Dean pulled back, enough to see Cas reach into his pocket and pull out a ring.

A ring.

An insane panic rose in Dean’s throat. He began to fervently shake his head, lips halfway around the _No no no_ , when Cas stilled him. He held up a hand and said quickly, “It’s not what you think it is.”

Dean pursed his lips. “And what do you think I think it is?”

Cas made a face, rolling his eyes. “I am well aware of human traditions in marriage, Dean. It is not an engagement ring.”

“Oh.” And just why the hell did he feel slightly disappointed at that? He shook his head. Relief. He felt mostly relief. He focused on that and nodded. “What is it, then?”

“It, well...” Cas paused. “For lack of a better explanation, it is a homing beacon. It’s my way to undo this...” and he pointed to Dean’s ribcage. “That way, I’ll be able to find you. You won’t have to pray to me or summon me, I’ll just be able to find you. Only me, though, not the other Angels.” He grinned. “I’m sure none of us would like that very much.”

Dean stared at him, then looked at the ring. It was dark silver and flat, made up of several different small chains looping and looping and looping around each other. Dean loved it immediately.

“Now,” Cas was saying. “I understand if this makes you uncomfortable, you don’t have to--”

“Yes.”

Cas looked up. “What?”

“Yes, I want it. Best gift. Want it.” Dean opened up his left hand, splaying his fingers against Cas’s chest. “Put it on me.”

Cas blinked, and then smiled slowly. He took Dean’s hand and slowly slipped the ring over Dean’s fourth finger. Together, they stared down at it. Dean breathed the ocean air around him, heavily aware that the rock they stood on was almost as old as the being that stood before him. Slowly, he slipped his arms around Cas and kissed him thoroughly, only cognizant that they had transported when he felt a familiar warmth surround him again. He pulled away from their kiss in Bobby’s living room, smiled at Cas, and turned to the kitchen. “We’re back.”

Sammy leaned his head around the corner. “Where’d’ja go?”

“Saw the baby Jesus. Manger and everything.”

“Oh, that’s nice,” said Bobby. “Tell him what you want for Christmas?”

Dean smiled and bit his lip. He knew that Cas was looking at him, and it almost took more strength than he could manage to meet that gaze, to let himself be fully and completely open to that moment. That moment when Cas was gazing at him, and their hands were intertwined, and he could feel the ring between their fingers. When his heart was ripped asunder and born anew all in one second. He opened his mouth to reply, but it was only Cas who heard him say, “Already got what I want.”

Fuck the other shoe. He was happy.


End file.
